Of Hats, Rats, and Mechanical Doohickeys
by JCMorrigan
Summary: Believe it or not, Archibald Snatcher was not always the villain of Cheesebridge. The end of the story may be inevitable, but there is still room to tell of an unlikely friendship. Contains one-sided slash shipping and some het shipping with a quasi-OC.
1. The Tailor's Son

1\. The Tailor's Son

Amelia's scream brought Gabriel running across the shop.

Which was no small feat, as the course from Point A to Point B was littered with mannequins, half-finished dresses whose hems were easy to get one's feet tangled in, boxes of shoes, and even stray pins that required one to wear shoes at all times on the sales floor lest one wanted to be stabbed. Gabriel didn't know what to expect when he reached the door, where Amelia was frozen in horror. Perhaps it was something as simple as her seeing another rat, though he'd thought he'd chased the last of them out of the shop a while ago. Perhaps she was in some sort of danger, though he couldn't quite imagine what. Or perhaps, terror of terrors, something had happened to the as-of-yet unborn child in her womb.

Gabriel was somewhat surprised to find Amelia clutching a mere piece of paper. Her hands shook as her eyes retread the page again and again. "Amelia?" Gabriel asked cautiously. "Amelia, my sweet, what's wrong?"

"She's dead," Amelia replied, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Who's dead, my sweet?"

Amelia broke down into tears then. "It's Penelope! She's dead!"

Gabriel went pale. He knew quite well the relationship Amelia had with her aunt Penelope. The old woman had been a mentor and friend to her niece, guiding her through times of trouble. It wasn't surprising for her to have passed, really, Gabriel realized as he reflected. She had been getting on in years quite a bit. Still, it was disconcerting to remember that the last he'd heard from the woman, she was promising to be in town for Amelia's child's Christening.

Amelia crossed to a table in the center of the shop, easing herself down onto one of the chairs and laying the letter out on the wood before her. Gabriel wracked his brain for how best to comfort his beloved wife, knowing very little in the world could replace Aunt Penelope for her. In the end, he moved to a chair adjacent to hers, placing his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close as she sobbed.

After some time, Amelia stated, "I want to name the child after her."

"I think that would be very fitting, my sweet," Gabriel said softly. But then a thought occurred to him: "What if the child is a boy – "

"I don't care. After you and the child, she was the most important person to me."

"My sweet, you can't name a boy 'Penelope.' They'll jeer at him in the streets – "

"GABRIEL SPENCER SNATCHER!" Amelia wrenched herself from her husband's embrace, seizing his shoulders and locking her burning blue eyes onto his. It was then that Gabriel knew there was no arguing left. "THIS CHILD WILL BEAR MY AUNT'S NAME ONE WAY OR ANOTHER!"

"…Perhaps the middle name for a boy, then?" Gabriel suggested meekly.

Amelia took a deep breath, thinking it over. "Yes. A middle name for a boy. That would work."

Three months later, when the child was born, Gabriel happily signed the boy's legal existence as Archibald Penelope Snatcher.

...

Eleven years passed.

Two girls gossiped to each other as they walked up the winding sidewalks of Cheesebridge. "I finished that book about the ugly bell-ringer who never left the church tower," one of them began.

"Oh?"

"And I was thinking…what if that's why Archibald Snatcher never leaves the tailor's shop?" the girl giggled. "Because he knows he's so ugly!"

"I think you missed the point of that book," her companion stated, though she had herself a giggle as well. "We're…not being mean, are we?"

"How can we be mean about it? He's the TAILOR'S son. It isn't like we're talking about a member of the Guild."

"And besides," a third voice broke in from directly behind them, "he's heard it all before, anyway."

Both girls shrieked and spun to see the subject of their discussion standing right behind them. The eleven-year-old Archibald was clothed in a long coat of brown that day, with several patches he'd sewn in himself. His long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail held in place with a single blue ribbon tied in a bow. That day, he carried a roll of fabric hoisted onto one shoulder. In terms of height, he somewhat towered above the pair of girls, and he knew that was making them nervous. He put on his best unnerving smile to let them know he'd heard exactly everything.

"We didn't MEAN it!" one of the girls squeaked. "We were just…having a laugh!"

"We do it to everybody!" The other was slowly backing away. "The butcher's daughter, the doctor's son – "

"Aren't you the butcher's daughter?" Archibald replied coolly.

"We're sorry!" the other girl burst out before the pair of them turned and bolted. As they ran, Archibald could hear one of them shrieking, "He's so CREEPY!"

All Archibald had to offer in reply to this was a roll of the eyes. He really had heard it all before. It was a rare day when he could pass any of his peers and not overhear some crack about his looks or his station. The Snatcher family was renowned throughout town as quality tailors and dressmakers, but there was no pretending this was a high-class position; the family could barely afford basic plumbing for the shop and their living quarters above it. As for Archibald himself, he had inherited his father's pointed nose and crooked teeth as well as his mother's metabolism. He'd spent a good few years wishing it had been the other way around before simply giving up and waving away the whispers this brought him behind his back. Ergo, to say a popular child was more than a gross error. He had literally no friends his own age in all of Cheesebridge.

And this, to Archibald, was just fine. He didn't see why he would need any in the first place.

"Oh, Mother!" he called out, pushing open the door set into the curved, wide-windowed façade of the shop called Snatcher's Stitches. "Oh, Father! Guess what arrived today!"

Amelia hurried down the stairs from the upstairs quarters while Gabriel stepped in eagerly from the back room. "The yellow silk!" Amelia sighed happily.

"We should have Elizabeth's order done within a matter of days," Archibald announced.

Gabriel shook his head. "Remember, Archibald – "

Archibald sighed, rolling his eyes yet again. "I know, I KNOW. Call other men and women, especially those of station, by their surnames. It shows respect."

"We'll have MISS BACON'S order completed within a matter of days," Gabriel corrected. He stepped forward to clap a hand on his son's shoulder. "No matter. You'll get it right soon enough. Why don't we get to work?"

Elizabeth Bacon had ordered several grandiose gowns and hats, and all in yellow, which seemed to be her favorite color for reasons that Archibald couldn't even begin to guess, as he found the particular shade putrid. However, when one worked in the business of making clothing for an entire town, one learned quickly there was no accounting for taste. Gabriel, Amelia, and Archibald became a well-oiled machine, cutting lengths of the putrid-colored silk and bringing it around to a triad of mannequins, where they began pinning and stitching. It hadn't taken long at all for Archibald to pick up all the tricks of his parents' trade, and Amelia and Gabriel trusted him fully to put together orders with grace and precision.

As he wrapped cloth over his assigned mannequin, Archibald glanced over a sheet of Miss Bacon's measurements. It struck him that she had a very particular figure. She was short, and somewhat rounded in the midsection, though with gangly limbs. This struck him as familiar, and he stored the information away for later use.

...

Dinner that night was rather meager, though the promise of the Bacon order brought with it a future of more splendid meals to come. Amelia laid the table out quickly, hoping she'd vetted the food well enough. Avoiding using dairy in day-to-day meals had become routine, but Amelia still worried about being too careless one day and missing something. She'd never quite gotten over the fright that had been instilled within her when she discovered the hard way that her son had quite a violent allergy.

And as it did every night, the worry crossed her mind that young Archibald wouldn't be able to make it in a town that based its economy upon cheese. She forced such thoughts away and focused on placing the silverware.

"I tell you," Gabriel announced as he strode into the room, "the Bacon order is just the beginning! Once the rest of them see the splendor of her gowns, they'll come flocking to Snatcher's Stitches in droves, and we'll find ourselves with more work than we know what to do with!" He took a seat, with Archibald following suit right beside him. "And then, it will finally happen!"

"Yes, dear." Amelia nodded. She knew what was coming, and sat down across the table from her husband and son.

"After all," Gabriel began, unaware that Archibald, having committed this particular speech to memory, was lip-syncing it next to him, complete with overblown hand gestures, "hard work is the route to a White Hat! Those who put in the time and patience will surely be rewarded, and soon, I will have the honor of being invited into the one and only Tasting Room to discuss matters of urgency and town betterment among kindred minds! …Amelia, my sweet, is something wrong?"

Amelia bit her lip to stifle a giggle from Archibald's mockery. "Nothing. Nothing at all!"

"It's going to happen," Gabriel insisted. "And soon. I know it will. Then we'll live like a king, queen, and prince."

Amelia had become disillusioned a long time ago. Gabriel had been saying the same thing since before Archibald was born, always insisting that the time he was to be named to the elite council of White Hats was "soon." Always "soon." Amelia was sure by now that the White Hats didn't care, not about a tailor. No matter how hard Gabriel worked, he would never have the lineage or the wealth. She wondered how Archibald felt when year after year, Gabriel's prediction of joining the upper class failed to come true. In truth, the boy was only just beginning to become disillusioned as well, as much as he wished ever so much that Gabriel would one year be correct.

...

On his way toward his bedchamber, Archibald became aware of a disturbance in the hallway. Something was making an awful racket, squeaking and clanking in the corner. Since that was where Gabriel had set up a cage-style trap for rats, Archibald had a fair guess of what was making the noise.

Kneeling, he spied a rat rapidly clawing at the walls of the cage, trying to free itself in vain. "Well, hello there," he said softly. "What sort of trouble have you gotten into, then?"

Amelia, passing, began to ask, "Archibald, what are you looking at – " Then her eyes lit upon the tiny prisoner. "RAT!" she screeched, loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. "IT'S A RAT!"

Gabriel came rushing into the hallway. "We caught a rat?"

"GET RID OF IT!" Amelia shrieked, pointing with a shaking finger at the trap. "GET RID OF IT RIGHT NOW! THAT UGLY, DISGUSTING THING DOESN'T BELONG HERE!"

"At once!" Gabriel nodded. "Archibald, stand aside."

"You're…going to kill it, aren't you?" Archibald replied.

"Yes," Gabriel affirmed. "It's a filthy thing that needs to be removed. Now, stand aside or hand me the trap."

"No!" Archibald stood, clutching the trap tightly. "Don't kill it!"

"Archibald," Gabriel said sternly. "Please see sense. That rat will make us all diseased."

"I want to keep it." Archibald fixed a glare upon his father that he'd inherited from his mother, one that warned Gabriel that an impasse was forthcoming.

"Maybe," Amelia said shakingly, "so long as it stays in your room…and doesn't leave…and you take good care of it…you can keep it."

Gabriel relaxed a bit; if Amelia was willing to let Archibald protect the rat, he had less of a reason to destroy the creature.

"Can I really?" Archibald looked at his mother with a not-too-often-seen expression of joy.

"IF IT STAYS IN YOUR ROOM," Amelia reiterated.

"Thank you, Mother!" Archibald replied happily. He turned his attention to the trap's prisoner: "I think I'll call you Framley. That's a good name for a rat, is it not?"

Perhaps he didn't find the concept of friendship so useless after all.

...

Within a few days, Elizabeth Bacon's gowns were finished. The final touches were placed upon the last putrid-yellow confection in the evening, and it was decided that Miss Bacon would be informed of the readiness of her gowns the following morning. With that, the Snatcher trinity packed up their sewing needles and seam rippers and made way for their beds.

Though Archibald lingered, looking back at the gowns, particularly one that had been accented with blue and given a series of flamboyant ruffles. The fact of the matter was that Elizabeth Bacon, through some twist of fate, was roughly Archibald's size and shape. And this was something that had lingered on his mind for a while, though he couldn't quite explain to himself why.

He moved halfway up the stairs before hearing the door of his parents' room click closed, then, overcome by curiosity over the connection he'd made, he crept back down toward the mannequins. The yellow and blue number wasn't really so bad after all. Perhaps "putrid" had been too strong of a word. It was actually somewhat beautiful. And it would probably look all the more beautiful on someone.

As the thought formed in Snatcher's mind, he knew his parents wouldn't approve of it. He knew absolutely no one would approve of it. But his curiosity was overcoming him, and it was such an enticing gown.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he'd whipped the yellow and blue silk gown from its resting place, being very careful not to fold or crease it as he smuggled it up the stairs. His parents were still shut in their chamber, leaving Archibald an unimpeded route to his own room. He quickly scurried inside, closing and locking the door.

In a few short moments, his prior clothes lay discarded on the floor, and he was draped in the yellow and blue silk, admiring himself in the mirror. Short as Miss Bacon was, she was still taller than an eleven-year-old child, and the hem of the skirt pooled a bit around Archibald's feet, but otherwise, the dress fit as though it had been fated.

On a table on the opposite side of the room, Framley had been set up with a small living cage, provided with food, water, and spare fabric to make a bed out of. "What do you think, Framley?" Archibald asked the rodent, giving an experimental twirl in front of the glass and watching as the fabric billowed out.

Framley just made a clicking noise.

"Right," Archibald stated. "The hair doesn't quite work. Perhaps if I…"

He loosed his ponytail, teasing his hair atop his head and tying it into a messy updo with the ribbon. "Better?" he asked Framley.

The rat made no response.

"Better," Archibald decided. "You know, Framley, I might even call myself beautiful." And he gave the mirror an honest smile. The smile quickly faded; "The hair's still not working. Perhaps with one of the hats…Framley, I'll be back."

He crept out of the room, avoiding the steps that creaked on his way down to retrieve one of the hats commissioned for Miss Bacon. One in particular, a yellow sun hat tied round with a blue ribbon, caught his eye. He quickly crossed to it, flipped it once in his hands, and then settled it on his head. Archibald then turned to hustle his way back to his room and the mirror only to be stopped short by the sight of his father on the stairs. He was frozen, staring in shock at Gabriel, and Gabriel's reaction was much the same, though Archibald was sure Gabriel's heart wasn't threatening to beat its way right out of its rib cage the way Archibald's was.

"Archibald," Gabriel said, and Archibald could hear the anger slowly bubbling up behind his voice. Archibald tried to think of an excuse, something to talk his way out of the situation he'd just been caught in, but no words came. When Gabriel spoke next, it was an absolute growl:

"There are things that men…men of status, or men who wish to be men of status…don't do. There are things that men don't do at all. And men do not wear women's garments."

"Understood," Archibald replied hoarsely.

"I don't know why you decided to do this," Gabriel continued, "but you're going to put it all back the way you found it. And I am never going to see you dressed in such a manner again. Is that clear?"

"Very clear, father."

"Well, then." Gabriel searched for words and failed. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, father."

Gabriel turned and made his way up the stairs, and Archibald returned to his room to change out of the gown and put it back the way he found it. He knew very well that there were rules about what men did and did not do, and he in no way wanted to threaten his father's chance for a White Hat…or, as far off as it seemed, the dream that Archibald might one day wear his own.

Still, it wasn't every day he actually found himself pretty.


	2. A Night Out and a Blunder or Two

2\. A Night Out and a Blunder or Two

Roughly two months after Archibald Snatcher turned thirteen, so did one young master Charles Portley-Rind, the son of the most influential and wealthy family in Cheesebridge and heir to the leadership position of the Cheese Guild. Normally, when such an event happened, it passed by the working and lower classes completely, reserved only for the rich and the famous. However, in an attempt to "remind this town that our family cares about the lowborn, even if not as much as the well-bred, of course," in young Charles' own words, invitations went out to families of all classes to attend a party hosted by the Cheese Guild and sponsored by the White Hats. Children ages ten to fifteen would be given the run of the ballroom to socialize with Charles while adults would gather in other parts of the stately Portley-Rind manor.

"This is it!" Gabriel crowed, waving the invitation in the air. "This is how we get our foot in the door, Amelia! When we arrive and remind the Portley-Rinds of how much we have contributed to this town, we'll be under consideration for the next White Hat for sure!"

"Of course, dear." Amelia nodded routinely. Gabriel didn't even notice how hollow the gesture was.

Amelia addressed her son next: "Archibald, you'll want to look your best. We don't want to make a bad impression on the Portley-Rinds and their friends."

"But of course!" Archibald nodded his agreement. "I can have something ready in time for the party."

From then until the event, he spent his time working on repairing some of his old garments and combining them with a freshly sewn waistcoat. At the end of it all, he turned up one very smart suit that was primarily bright crimson, one of the two colors he thought suited him best.

...

"Now remember," Gabriel told his son as the three Snatchers made their way up to the Portley-Rind residence in the late evening, "young Master Portley-Rind barely knows you. You must treat him with decorum. Shake his hand, look him in the eye, and wish him many happy returns."

"Of course," Archibald replied. "I'm not stupid. I know how this works."

"And Archibald, dear," Amelia said cautiously, "not to judge, but, erm, perhaps you've had enough to eat for the night? You'd best, er, leave whatever cheese they have out for the other guests. You wouldn't want to look a glutton. You….you also don't want you-know-what to happen."

"It only happens SOMEtimes," Archibald argued. This was a lie.

"Still…"

"All right, Mother, all right."

The doorman opened up the entryway to where the young guests populated the ballroom. It was easy to tell who had come from what sort of family. While many of the children wore formal wear that was slightly shabby, others were decked out in lavish suits and multilayered ballgowns. Archibald caught himself wondering just how many of these pieces had been worked on by his very own family; he thought he recognized a few articles.

"Mr. and Mrs. Snatcher," the doorman addressed, gesturing to a side door leading to where the adults had gathered. "This way, if you please."

Archibald was left alone in the sea of young guests, keeping to the walls as he observed the room. Most everyone in it, he realized, he recognized as someone he'd caught whispering about him behind his back. Not a good sign, he thought, for someone poised to be the son of the next White Hat. Though perhaps when that happened, if it happened, everything would change, and every idle gossiper would find himself or herself eating words. Until then, Archibald played a game of who-said-what: this boy here had assumed Archibald was a "sissy" for refusing to join in neighborhood ball games, that girl there had made another comparison of him to a horror novel monster, that boy there had wondered out loud exactly what his mother had done to produce such a "disgusting-looking" child. If it weren't for the goal of keeping up appearances for Charles, wherever he was, Archibald would certainly have regretted showing up at all.

Where was Charles, anyhow? Archibald had never met him in person, and wondered what exactly he looked like. He knew that a Portley-Rind son would be dressed all in white, with flaming red hair. The Portley-Rinds had run Cheesebridge for generations, for better or for worse, and not a one of the bloodline had been anything other than a redhead. Archibald wondered about Charles' demeanor, as well. Obviously, he had to carry himself with grace and good form. Was he a kind boy, or a rude one? One would hope that the heir to the most prominent position in town was good-hearted.

Many of the guests were dancing, and Archibald noted a clear separation: the more well-dressed kept to each other as partners, and those less financially fortunate were left to dance with each other. No one approached Archibald to ask him to dance; he wouldn't have wanted to anyway. If he disgusted this lot this much, he figured, well, then they disgusted him right back.

Still, every so often, one of them would recognize him ("You're the tailor's son, aren't you?") and approach for a greeting, either because it was the routine thing to do in the name of good manners or to silently mock Archibald. Not even staying close to the wall made for a safe hiding place, and he was forced to follow along with the great charade and shake this boy's hand, kiss that girl's hand, shake that boy's hand, kiss that girl's hand.

"If I may have your attention!" The voice that sounded from the top of the stairs at the far end of the room was authoritative, even if immature in timbre. "Yes, yes, I would like to thank you all very much for coming to my party, and I hope that you are enjoying the evening!"

Archibald turned his gaze to the stairway, beholding Charles Portley-Rind for the first time, and his heart seized up.

"If you please," Charles continued, "I will now be taking your well-wishes."

The dancers all ceased, lining up in an orderly row to wish Charles happy returns one by one. Archibald found himself swept into the crowd, though one of the last in line. All the while, his mind raced.

Charles was an incredibly handsome boy, decked out in an impeccable white ensemble. His well-defined facial features were offset by the coiffed mane of red that the Portley-Rinds were so famous for. Archibald couldn't take his eyes off of the boy. Charles was the most beautiful person he'd ever beheld.

There was a certain sort of man, Archibald knew, who did not pursue women in romance, but instead chased after other men. To be one of these men, he had been taught, was one of the worst sins a man could commit. Such a man would never see employment in town, let alone have a chance for the coveted White Hat. And so he had resolved not to be one, thinking it an easy enough task. While he never had found a girl he fancied, he chalked that up to the simple fact that most of them would rather make fun of him than approach him in so much as a friendly manner. Now he was struck with a fear that he'd somehow slipped up, for as the line moved him closer to Charles, he was undeniably drawn to the fire-haired boy, and he couldn't quite drive the thought out of his mind that Charles was gorgeous. How was no one else able to hear how loudly his heart was beating? And a good thing, too, or he would have been given away.

Archibald steeled himself to be cool as he approached Charles, prepared not to betray the treasonous feelings that were taking him over. As they stood face-to-face, Charles flashed him a sincere smile, which Archibald returned. A boy with a smile like that couldn't be bad, could he? Archibald found himself wanting to wish him well with great honesty.

Charles offered his hand, and Archibald took hold of it and politely kissed it before beginning, "Master Portley-Rind, I wish you many happy returns on this, the day of your bi – "

Charles withdrew his hand as though it had been bitten by a snake. "I say, did you just KISS my hand?"

A chill overtook Archibald. That was exactly what he had done, without even thinking about it. Was it because of the feelings of attraction toward Charles he wished he wasn't having? Or was it a mere mistake, caused by a fluctuation of routine, trying to keep track of whose hand to shake and whose to kiss? Whatever the cause, he knew he had to cover for it, and quickly. "Apologies!" He forced a smile. "A mere error, Master Portley-Rind! Can't be the first one to have mixed that one up, can I?"

"The first I've known," Charles replied. "You aren't one of those queer boys, are you?"

"Not at all," Archibald denied. "I suppose now's the time to admit I had been planning that one from the start as a jest. After all, what is life without a little levity?"

"Levity!" Charles laughed. "I should say you've brought it! To think I've had my hand kissed by…who are you again?"

"Archibald Snatcher," Archibald answered, thoroughly aware that giving away his identity would lead to disaster but unaware of what else he could do given the situation.

"The tailor's son!" Charles crowed. "I hope you should all forgive me if I go and give my hand a thorough wash before returning to the festivities!"

Archibald blanched.

"Oh, don't think you've lost all honor," Charles said in a mock reassuring tone. "After all, you've got the honor of the most unattractive person to have attempted to court me!"

The entire ballroom erupted into laughter.

This wasn't happening.

"For the last time, Master Portley-Rind," Archibald said sternly. "I was not trying to – "

"Oh, I know, I know," Charles guffawed. "Why don't you go back to the dance floor? Perhaps you can find a handsome young boy to ask you to dance!"

The laughter grew louder. So this was the demeanor of Charles Portley-Rind, Archibald concluded. Absolutely unkind and without compassion. Why had he expected differently? After all, it was only fitting to match everyone else in the room.

"I've just remembered," Archibald stated. "I've somewhere very important to be."

"More important than my birthday?" Charles retorted. "Now I know you're just trying to save face."

"I've left an order unfinished for a wealthier lord from London," Archibald lied. "Couldn't very well have it fail to ship out tomorrow when he needs it for his wedding, could I?" All the while, he was making his way back toward the door.

"You'd be a fool to leave at this time of night," Charles said sternly. "After all, the Boxtrolls may have come out of hiding."

At this statement, a hush fell over the room. Every child feared the Boxtrolls and their unpredictable behavior.

"They could eat you right up," Charles continued…and then could not hold back from breaking out into a great smile: "Though that might be doing this town a bit of a favor, don't you think?"

As the loudest laughter yet erupted from the room, Archibald slammed the door, closing himself out onto the front stoop. From there, he stormed into the street so he could plan out what to do next.

Inside the ballroom, one boy, also aged thirteen and wearing a waistcoat of blue, wasn't laughing, and he hadn't been since the incident had begun. In fact, as soon as Archibald left, he reached over and tugged the sleeve of the boy next to him. "You shouldn't have laughed," he chastised.

"Oh, really?" the other boy, a Guild member's child known as Westerly Hanson, replied. "It's only that Snatcher peasant. What difference does it make?"

"If he is the tailor's son," the first boy insisted, "then he's very important to this town. We're all probably wearing things he helped make, and as everyone's clothes are so fine, I think he must do a good job. Besides, why should we laugh at him for kissing Charles' hand?"

"You mean Master Portley-Rind," Westerly corrected.

"It's rather arbitrary, isn't it?" the boy went on as though he hadn't heard. "Shake a man's hand and kiss a woman's. Who decided upon that rule, anyhow? Hm. I do hope Archibald is all right. Is no one going to go after him? Well, then, I will!"

"Boxtrolls will eat you," Westerly cautioned, though, looking this boy over, it was clear from his dress that he, too, was lower class…and were those burn marks on his pant legs? He realized he wouldn't mind if the Boxtrolls gobbled this one up as well.

"Boxtrolls don't scare me!" the boy said with a broad smile before making his way to the door. On the way, he passed the buffet table, where all sorts of expensive cheeses had been set out for the party guests to eat. He had the feeling that after public ridicule, Archibald might not be in the mood to talk to anyone, so he'd best take some food with him as a peace offering.

Outside the building, Archibald paced back and forth as he contemplated his next move. He supposed that having made up such an elaborate lie, he should go back home to complete the illusion. However, on the other hand, what if there was a chance for him to save face? He'd just made a fool of himself out of the son of the chief White Hat, and there was no telling what disgrace that would bring his entire family. If he could fix it, then he absolutely had to.

The door to the manor opened, and a short, slender and dark-haired boy clad in a blue waistcoat and sorch-marked pants slipped out onto the street, a plate of cheese in hand. "Archibald Snatcher?" he greeted tentatively.

"What do YOU want?" Archibald snapped.

"I only wanted to see if you were all right," the boy said softly. "It wasn't fair, the way they made fun of you in there. You didn't do anything wrong. They always do that, you know. Make fun of people for the silliest reasons. It's very rude of them."

Was this some sort of trick? "If you've come to ridicule me as well," Archibald growled, "you can leave."

"But I didn't!" the boy protested. "I just know how awful I'd feel if they'd made fun of me. Well, all right, I've learned to ignore them for the most part, but sometimes it's too much to bear all the same. And I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't do anything."

"I know," the boy insisted, "but I'm still sorry they laughed at you. Here!" He held out the plate of cheese. "I thought you might want something to eat, and you wouldn't feel much like going back in through that crowd to get it."

Archibald eyed the plate, then looked up at the boy. His better judgment told him this was some sort of joke. No one ever acted this sympathetic toward him without some sort of punchline. But he wanted to believe this boy had better intentions. He just wanted something to go right this night.

His eyes traveled back down to the plate. He knew exactly what his mother would say. But he'd just been offered the cheese in a gesture of friendship, and turning that down would be yet another faux pas. Besides, he thought, it was entirely likely that nothing would happen to him this time if he indulged.

So he said "Thank you" and took a bite.

...

The next thing he remembered was waking up in his bed, fully clothed in his mostly-red suit. Gabriel was depositing a swollen leech into a bucket on the bedside table while Amelia looked on in horror.

"…What happened?" Archibald managed to ask groggily.

"Oh, thank the Lord, you're all right…" Amelia sighed.

"We, er…we had to leave the party early," Gabriel stated softly.

"What time is it?" Archibald asked, dreading the answer.

"We only made it home a while ago," Gabriel replied.

So he'd had one of his fits after all. Archibald couldn't imagine what that had done to his family's social standing.

Before any further discussion could occur, the doorbell jingled, indicating someone had entered the shop. A thin voice called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"A customer?" Amelia wondered out loud. "This late?"

Archibald followed his parents down the stairs to find the boy with the burn marks on his clothes standing in the middle of the sales floor. "Are you…" the boy began before catching sight of Archibald. "Oh, you're all right!" He immediately flushed; "I'm so very, terribly, INCREDIBLY sorry! I didn't mean to…I didn't know you would…"

"It's all right," Amelia told the boy.

Teeth gritted, Archibald stepped out in front of him. "You have nothing to apologize for," he insisted, "because nothing of consequence happened."

"Nothing of consequence?" the boy repeated. "But you'd swollen up like a balloon, and were turning all sorts of colors! I was afraid you'd perish right in front of - "

"That," Archibald interrupted, "couldn't POSSIBLY have happened."

"But…" The boy looked up to see the apologetic look on Gabriel and Amelia's faces. He began to piece together what should and shouldn't be spoken of. "I'm…sorry for bringing that up too."

"You needn't be," Archibald insisted, "because there's NOTHING NOT TO BRING UP."

"Understood," the boy said with a nod. "Anyhow, it…it seems you're all right, so I won't keep you." He turned to leave.

"Wait."

The boy halted, looking back at Archibald.

No one outside of the Snatcher family had ever seemed to care that much about Archibald's well-being before. And Archibald couldn't well ignore that. Unaware that he was about to make his first real friend, he asked, "What's your name?"

"It's Herbert," the boy answered cheerily. "Herbert Trubshaw."


	3. The Escapades of Friends

3\. The Escapades of Friends

A dark night had fallen over the town of Cheesebridge. Yet the young Archibald Snatcher was not asleep, lying in his bed and staring up at the ceiling of his room. The notes of a new song had gotten into his head, and he wanted to try and put lyrics to it before it went away.

Between this rather noisy train of thought and the sounds of Framley scuttling about in his cage across the room, Archibald completely missed the tiny patter of the pebble that bounced against his window. What he did not miss was the larger rock that completely shattered the glass, coming to rest unceremoniously on the carpet among glittering shards.

Archibald hastened to the window to see the source of the rock. It could only have been one of two things: a ne'er-do-well, or…

"Sorry!" Herbert Trubshaw hissed up at him from the street below.

"Trubshaw!" Archibald hissed back. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I didn't mean to break your window."

"Why are you HERE? The Boxtrolls are out at this time of night, you know! Do you want to get eaten up!"

"I keep telling you!" Herbert insisted. "Boxtrolls don't scare me! And I've just had a breakthrough working on a new project, and I wanted to show you!"

"At THIS hour?"

"It is pretty late, isn't it?" Herbert admitted. "It's all right. You can just come and look at it tomorrow."

"No, no…" Archibald sighed. "Give me a moment. I'm coming down." His fear of the fabled Boxtrolls was secondary to his curiosity about whatever adventure Herbert had in mind for him. He quickly changed from nightgown to street clothes, then scurried down the stairs, avoiding those that squeaked, and slipped out the front door of Snatcher's Stitches.

"I'm quite excited to show you!" Herbert said in a hushed tone as soon as Archibald was in closer range.

"Can't you tell me what exact sort of…mechanical doohickey you've come up with now?" Archibald asked somewhat pleadingly.

"No, no, no!" Herbert insisted. "I have to SHOW you! Come on!" He took off at a run down the street, which happened to be uphill.

"Trubshaw!" Archibald gave chase. "Trubshaw, you know I can't run that fast! TRUBSHAW!"

Herbert had the mind to halt and wait for Archibald to catch up some blocks down the road. "Now," Archibald huffed as he finally reached Herbert, "if we could proceed at a more…sensible pace…"

"I'm just excited!" Herbert bubbled.

"So you've said," Archibald replied with a smile.

The pair had become fast friends ever since the night of Charles Portley-Rind's thirteenth birthday. Over the next couple of months, they were scarcely seen apart, unless Archibald was caught up helping his family with business or Herbert was locked away working on another of his projects. Of course, this had only spurred on rumors about the two of them. Given the gossip that had already been circulating about Archibald, the rest of their peers in Cheesebridge figured that the only reason he and Herbert could be so close was if they were secretly romantically involved. Yet they stood apart, invincible to rumors. They had each other, so what did it matter what anyone else thought?

As they walked briskly toward the destination Herbert had in mind, Herbert asked, "So have you come up with anything new creative in your corner of the world? Written any more poems?"

"They're not POEMS, Trubshaw," Archibald corrected. "They're SONGS. There's a difference!"

"You can call me by my first name, you know," Herbert broke in. They both knew Archibald wouldn't; he simply couldn't break the habit. It was simply Herbert's habit to suggest it whenever they met up. "Or 'Trubshaw' is fine, too. So have you written any more songs?"  
"I was working on one before you broke my window," Archibald informed him.

"Still sorry about that."

"No need to be."

"Can I hear it? The song you were working on."

"It's still a work in progress," Archibald admitted, "but here's how it goes so far." He sang softly, so as not to wake anyone or attract the attention of any nearby trolls: "There's a broken stopwatch in my chest. I think it ticks too fast. And every time it ticks, I know I won't forever last. Though I have flight of fancy dreams that would have made for tales most tall, the chiming of the clock reminds me I won't live them all…"

The song took up the rest of the duration of the walk to the alley where Herbert's project lay in hiding. At its conclusion, Herbert reviewed, "It's a bit morbid, but it's quite beautiful all the same."

"Of course it is," Archibald replied slyly. "I wrote it, after all! But in all seriousness, thank you. Now, what have we got here?"

"The 'mechanical doohickey,'" Herbert replied. "Now. Try and contain your excitement!"

"Trubshaw, you've built up so much suspense around this contraption, it's difficult to contain anything!"

"Right! Now, behold…THIS!" Herbert ducked behind a crate and brought out a small object wrapped in a sheet. He made a show of whipping off the sheet with the grandest flourish he could muster.

"It's…a small wagon," Archibald observed.

"It runs on a little engine I designed myself!" Herbert boasted, setting the tiny vehicle on the street and pressing a button. The small vehicle propelled itself across the cobblestone for a few feet before catching on a rough patch and toppling onto its side.

"Very impressive!" Archibald gave the display a round of soft applause.

"That was just the opening act," Herbert informed him. "The real show is this way!" He stepped back further into the alley, where an even larger sheet was draped over an object the size of fifteen crates.

"Trubshaw," Archibald commented, "you didn't…"

"I DID!" Herbert whipped the sheet off the much larger device. "Voilà!"

The great wooden wagon was cobbled together out of different planks and parts; none of the four wheels seemed to have come from the same object. An armchair was mounted to the top of it like a throne. Pipes protruding from the wagon hinted at the engine within.

Archibald was awestruck. "I can't believe you actually made all that."

"I…had a little help," Herbert admitted.

"Help?" This confused Archibald. He didn't know of any friends Herbert had besides him. "Who helped you with all this?"

"It doesn't matter," Herbert said quickly. "Want to take it for a ride?"

"Is it safe?"

"I don't know! We'll have to find out!" Herbert was already climbing onto the back of the wagon, gesturing to the armchair.

"Times like these, I wish I could argue with you," Archibald muttered under his breath as he clambered up to settle into the armchair.

Herbert threw a lever, and they were off, the wagon chugging its way down the alley. It got to the other end and turned onto the street before the engine died with a loud whine and the two left-side wheels broke down – and a lucky thing, too, or gravity might have carried the wagon all the way downhill until it crashed into something.

"I suppose it still needs work," Herbert sighed.

The two boys climbed off the wagon and began the laborious task of putting it back in the alley despite its two missing wheels. "I'm quite aware you'll have it in working order in very little time," Archibald stated. "I can see it now. You'll be wheeling all around town in this…whatchamacallit, calling out advertisement for your many inventions, and that's how you'll get your own White Hat to go with the one I'm going to have."

"You know I don't care about hats, Archibald," Herbert laughed.

"How can you not care about hats?" Archibald replied, somewhat stunned. "Don't you want to be a man of worth?"  
"Yes I do, Archibald, but I can do that without a hat that tells me what I should be! And so can you!"

Archibald shook his head. "When I get mine, I'll still put in a word for you."

"If you should get one and I don't, I don't mind," Herbert admitted. "I quite like that idea you had of driving around town in my wagon and helping people by building and fixing things."

They managed to settle the wagon back down and cover it up with the sheet. "It's quite late," Archibald realized, somewhat nervous. "We'd best both get home before we meet with terrible fates. You live close by, don't you?"

"Perhaps we should go to your home first," Herbert suggested.

"Why my home? You live closer."

"I just thought…" Herbert knew Archibald wouldn't take it well if Herbert called him out on being more afraid of what came out after sundown than Herbert was, and would benefit more from having the company. "…Oh, never mind. It didn't really make sense."

They left the alley together, making their way through the labyrinth of back roads. No other human was around, but Archibald could feel eyes on him from the dark corners of the alleys. They were there, he knew it, and they were probably sizing up which of the boys would taste better…

It caught him off guard when a Boxtroll actually stepped cautiously out into the street, holding one of the wheels that had popped off the wagon and offering it out toward Herbert.

Herbert was already reaching for the wheel with a smile when Archibald threw himself between Herbert and the troll, arms spread out, forming as much of a wall as he could. "YOU WON'T BE EATING HIM ON MY WATCH!" he roared at the troll, who quailed and shuffled backward. "Herbert, RUN!"

"Er…Archibald…" Herbert said nervously. "Perhaps now's a good time to tell you that – "

"Do you WANT to be eaten? RUN!"

"Archibald, Shoe isn't going to attack us."

"Who in the WORLD is…"

Realization struck. He looked back over his shoulder at Herbert, then in front of them, at the tiny troll clad in a cardboard box displaying a picture of an effeminate shoe. "Trubshaw," Archibald said slowly, deliberately, "what is going on here?"

Herbert stepped around him, extending a hand to the Boxtroll. "I'm sorry about all that," he said softly. "I haven't told him about you yet. All he knows is the stories. Thank you for finding my wheel."

The Boxtroll said something in return, in a language Archibald couldn't make heads or tails of, and handed the wheel off to Herbert.

"Is Fish around?" Herbert asked, glancing into the side streets. When he spied what appeared to be an ordinary abandoned cardboard box, this one decorated with a fish-shaped emblem, he called out, "It's all right! Archibald is a friend! He won't hurt you! Come on out; I want him to meet you!"

The box seemed to sprout arms, legs, and a head. Archibald transitioned from surprise into flat-out bewilderment as a second Boxtroll left the security of the side street and came to stand next to Shoe.

When Herbert turned back to Archibald, his expression was almost apologetic. "I want you to meet my friends," he introduced. "Shoe and Fish." He turned back to the trolls; "Fish, Shoe, this is Archibald." And then back: "Shoe and Fish have helped me build a lot of things. And I've helped them build things, too."

"When you said you had help with the machine…" Archibald realized.

"It was them," Herbert confirmed. "They're not like what the stories say at all, Archibald."

"They're not cannibalistic thieves?"

"Good heavens, no! They'd never dream of eating one of us! And they only take what they're sure other people don't want! They don't have much for themselves, after all!"

"You always said Boxtrolls didn't scare you," Archibald recalled.

"When we first met," Herbert recalled, "I realized they were just as scared of me as I was of them."

"And when was THIS?"

"Since before I knew you."

Fish stepped forward and tugged on Herbert's sleeve, telling him something. Herbert nodded. "He says he's glad to meet you," Herbert translated.

Shoe asked a question, to which Herbert replied, "No, he's not much of a builder. He writes poems – "

"SONGS," Archibald insisted.

"Songs, sorry," Herbert amended. "And they're beautiful songs, too."

Herbert took a moment to look around at his three friends. "We're all just a bunch of misfits, is what we are," he realized. "But that's all right."

...

After the trolls had parted ways with the human boys, Archibald ended up accompanying Herbert back to his home, then walking back to the tailor's shop alone. He wasn't afraid of the night anymore. Herbert had proven it didn't hold anything to fear.

And when he lay back down to bed, it took him quite a while to get to sleep. It wasn't every day that you learned your best friend's other best friends were the creatures children were warned about by parents. It wasn't every day that you learned that such myths of bloodthirst were baseless. It was simply a lot to think about.

...

The town became blanketed in snow, and nearly all of its citizens began to walk with an extra spring in their step at the idea that Christmas was coming. It was, in fact, the first Christmas that Archibald was actually looking forward to. He'd never seen the appeal in the holiday, but now he had a friend to share it with. He and Herbert had planned to exchange gifts before heading down to the frozen river to skate.

With a small wrapped box in hand, Archibald stepped out of the shop door on his way to the designated rendez-vous place only to find Herbert approaching already, carrying a much larger box that was crudely wrapped, the paper torn in places. "I know we said we'd meet halfway," Herbert grunted, struggling to keep the box held up, "but your gift ended up being heavier than I expected, and I didn't want you to have to walk far."

"You didn't have to go overboard with it!" Archibald replied, now overcome with curiosity as to what exactly Herbert had for him.

"I hope you don't mind if I set it down a moment…" Herbert kicked a patch of street clear of snow before kneeling to place the box.

"Here." Archibald handed over the gift he carried. "Open yours first."

Herbert eagerly took the box into his own hands, ripping away the paper and ribbon to discover a pair of thick brown leather gloves. Experimentally, he pulled the right one on; it fit just perfectly. "Archibald!" His face lit up. "I don't know what to say!"

"We had a large order of leather gloves, and there was a pair left over," Archibald explained. "Thought you might want something to protect from burns while working on your doohickeys."

"I absolutely love them!" Herbert gushed, now wearing both gloves. "All right, it's your turn! I can't wait to see what you think!" He hoisted up the large box.

"We should probably take it indoors and open it on a table if it's so heavy," Archibald suggested.

"Good thinking!" Herbert agreed.

Inside the shop, the boys set the gift box down upon a spare table, and Archibald delicately peeled the paper off of it.

"I've been working on it for a while," Herbert blurted before the gift could be revealed.

"This…is something you made?" Archibald responded, somewhat taken aback.

Herbert nodded enthusiastically.

The box was opened, and it took Archibald a moment to register what he was actually looking at. He lifted it out of its container, setting it down on the table.

"It's a sewing machine!" Herbert explained. "A bit of a small one, but I thought you could use it for your work and for other things, too."

Archibald stared in awe at the machine, unsure of what to say.

"Archibald?" Herbert asked worriedly. "Is…it all right? Or don't you like it?"

"I…love it," Archibald answered honestly. To bequeath him something like this was a gesture of extreme magnitude that he hadn't expected, not even from his best friend. How many hours of hard work, how many trials and errors, had gone into its creation? And did this mean Archibald should tell Herbert the truth about the gloves?

In the end, he simply said, "I'll take it up to my room. Then we can make our way to the river." Lifting it up, he gave Herbert a direct look in the eye; "Thank you, Trubshaw."

"No need to thank me!" Herbert replied. "It's Christmas!"

As Archibald carried the precious device up the stairs to his chamber, Amelia appeared from the back storage room. "Herbert Trubshaw!" she greeted. "I had thought you and Archibald were going down to the river! Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No thank you," Herbert told Amelia. "We're heading to the river soon. How has business been?"

"Rather slow," Amelia admitted.

"What about the glove order? That must have taken some work."

"What glove order?" Amelia was baffled.

"Didn't you have to fill a great order of leather gloves?" Herbert asked.

Amelia shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I do know Archibald had been getting invested in leather work lately. He's spent the past two months trying to make a single pair of leather gloves. Don't tell him I told you this, but he had to start over several times, and there was a lot of cursing involved. Leather is a finicky material to work with, after all."

That was when Herbert realized what had really happened. He wasn't wearing a pair of leftover gloves after all. He had been happy with them all the same, but he looked at them anew, through the new knowledge that they were the result of two months' hard work.

"Trubshaw!" Archibald's voice interrupted his reverie. "We'd best get a move on!" Herbert faced his friend, who carried his ice skates over his shoulder.

"Yes!" Herbert agreed. "We'd best!"

...

The river was somewhat crowded with skaters already; it was a popular winter destination. Herbert, with skates laced on, took one step out onto the ice and lost his footing immediately, slipping and crashing onto the crystalline surface.

Archibald had no such issues, and skated around to hover over Herbert. "I would've thought you'd done this before."

"I've never SUCCESSFULLY done this before," Herbert said cheerily from where he lay. "But that doesn't mean I should stop trying, now, should it?"

With a sigh, Archibald extended a hand. "Here."

Herbert took it, and Archibald hoisted the smaller boy to his feet. As soon as Archibald let go of him, however, Herbert took three confident strides forward before hitting the ice again.

After Archibald set him upright the second time, he sighed, "Must I do everything for you? Don't let go this time."

"What are you – "

"Teaching you how to move on ice without falling down, Trubshaw."

It started with Herbert trying to skate while holding onto Archibald's hand to steady himself. Even that didn't turn out to be enough, and Archibald ended up holding onto both Herbert's forearms from behind in order to stop him from falling, instructing him how to place his feet and shift his weight in order to stay upright. It was much less of a frustrating process than Archibald had suspected it would be.

All the while, the other skaters stopped to gawk at the proximity of the two boys, and Archibald just knew certain rumors were resurfacing. "You realize they're talking about us," he whispered.

"Let them talk," Herbert responded.

At last, Herbert mastered the art of moving across ice, if a little less graceful than would have been optimal, and Archibald let go of him – which he realized made him slightly disappointed. "Look!" Herbert crowed. "I'm doing it!"

"That you are," Archibald confirmed, skating up next to him and making a pirouette on the ice. "Though I can still skate circles about you."

All in all, it wasn't a bad Christmas.


	4. A Conversation by the River

4\. A Conversation by the River

Now that the dark held no fear, Archibald Snatcher and Herbert Trubshaw made a habit of convening after hours, when all other humans were asleep. Archibald didn't tell his parents of the late-night meetings, making sure to creep in and out quietly and blaming the one incident of a broken window on drunken delinquents. Gabriel and Amelia noticed him developing a greater tendency to nap in the middle of the day, but still suspected nothing.

Herbert had attempted, for a while, to bring all of his friends together. But while Fish was open to the idea, Shoe and Archibald were both visibly uncomfortable with having to be in proximity of each other, and out of respect, Herbert decided to split his time between them all again. One night ago, he had spent some time working on bigger schematics with Fish and Shoe, but tonight was his night with Archibald.

The two boys made their way down to the lower reaches of town, across a bridge, all the way to a secluded spot on the riverbank that it didn't look like anyone had ever touched. "Perfect," Herbert muttered as the waters came into view; he clutched a small wooden boat that was almost magnetically drawn to the surface.

The pair settled down on the bank, then Herbert beckoned, "Watch!" He wound a circular paddle on his boat, twisting up stretchy bands and setting mechanisms into motion, before letting the craft loose upon the river, watching it speed of its own accord across the water, its paddle propelling it furiously.

"It works!" Herbert cried. "IT WORKS!"

The boat promptly ran out of momentum and stalled in the middle of the river.

"And how did you plan on getting it back?" Archibald teased.

Herbert, crestfallen, realized he absolutely had not planned for that. "Oh well," he sighed. "I can always build another one." He took up the other item he had carried down to the riverside: a jar of grape jelly. Nowadays, he said it was his favorite food, and he always had enjoyed it quite a bit, but it had risen in his good graces once he realized it was something that was safe for Archibald to eat. Uncapping the jar, he set it down on the ground, and both boys' fingers dipped in to retrieve the sweet substance. As they both went for the food, their hands brushed, and Archibald wondered how it was that he should notice this but Herbert seemed not to be fazed at all.

"If I can refine the steam engine to work on water," Herbert mused, "I could install it in the next boat and propel it farther."

"That still wouldn't get it to come back when you wanted it," Archibald pointed out.

Herbert shrugged. "Then I'll build a third."

"You'd clog this river with boats, wouldn't you?"  
Herbert sighed. "No, THAT'S not what I want. It would only pollute the river. Perhaps I have to keep thinking." Perhaps Fish and Shoe will have some ideas, he thought, though he didn't voice the sentiment out loud.

"Well, you know where to find me when you've got the next one worked up," Archibald reminded his friend.

"Of course!" Herbert replied.

They sat in silence for a while longer, cleaning out the jelly jar.

"Are you quite all right?" Herbert asked. "Usually, you've got a bit more to say."

"Does it truly not bother you, what they say about us?" Archibald asked. A subject had been weighing heavily on his mind for a while, and he figured it was about time he lightened the load; he knew by now he could trust Herbert. "That we're…involved. That we're queer."

"Not one bit," Herbert stated confidently. "Does it bother you?"  
"Not most days. Of course, if the Portley-Rinds buy in, it will be that much harder to attain a White Hat."

"But not impossible."

"No, not impossible," Archibald repeated. "Or…it wouldn't be, if the rumors were completely off the mark."

"Archibald, are you saying what I think you're saying?" Herbert looked to his friend in concern.

"I am," Archibald admitted, not making eye contact but instead fixing his gaze on the surface of the water. "We may not be together, but what they think about me is…well, it's quite true. I am…one of that sort."

And as soon as he'd confessed, he realized that the weight had only gotten heavier. It really wasn't something he should have admitted to anyone, he thought, and now Herbert was likely going to be repulsed and tell his secret to everyone he could find come morning…

"That's all right," Herbert said softly.

Not the response Archibald had been expecting, but the one he had been hoping for.

"After all, it's rather arbitrary, isn't it?" Herbert went on. "That men should only love women, and vice versa. Who's to say two men can't love each other, or two women? Is it because they can't bear children that way? Because that's ridiculous. I've often wished there was a way for someone to bear a child without having to involve another parent. I do so want children when I grow older, but I sometimes fear I'll never be married…I'm sorry. I've just made it about me. I didn't mean to. What I do mean to say is that it doesn't matter to me one bit whether you love women or other men. You're my friend, Archibald. That's not going to change because of this. And I know no one else would take this well. I swear to secrecy upon my very life. I won't tell a soul. Not human nor Boxtroll nor alley cat."

And now the weight was removed, and replaced with a different presence entirely. Archibald looked at his friend to be met with an honest smile. "Thank you, Herbert," Archibald replied. "You've…no idea what it means."

Herbert casually reached over to pat his friend on the shoulder. "Any secret you have will be safe with me."

"Is that so?" Archibald blurted. "Because I've another, you know. A lot of times, when we get an order at the shop for a particularly beautiful dress that turns out to fit me, I try it on. Father caught me at it once and made me swear he'd never see me wearing such things again, and I kept my promise. He's never SEEN me in another gown. I'm just more careful now, and…" He stopped himself short. Perhaps that was too far to test the boundaries of Herbert's secret-keeping. "I…er…"

"Do you even wear the high shoes?" Herbert asked.

"Yes," Archibald replied.

"I've often wondered how women keep their balance in those high shoes," Herbert admitted. "I knew you had a good sense of balance, but you must be very graceful to be able to walk in those shoes."

"I'd like to think I am," Archibald stated rather boastfully. So he really could trust Herbert with anything, it seemed.

"If I put a pair on, I doubt I'd get far," Herbert sighed.

"Well, we could test that out," Archibald suggested. "Later tonight, even. They're not as beastly as you think."

"Then I am up to the challenge!" Herbert announced. After giving it some more thought, he supplied, "I should think you'd want a white gown to go with your eventual White Hat."

"It would only be fitting," Archibald agreed. "Though if I were to dress as a woman while in the position of White Hat, I might just have to disguise myself fully and pretend to be someone else in order to not be found out. Though…that would be fun indeed." He grinned at the thought. "I fancy myself a decent actor. I bet I could convince the entire town I was someone else."

"If anyone could, it would be you," Herbert agreed.

"Though I'd need a new name for the second identity," Archibald mused. "Something with flair. Something frilly. Something…what's the word…"

"Frou-frou?" Herbert suggested.

Click.

"That's it, Trubshaw," Archibald realized. "That's not just the word; it's the NAME. Madame Frou Frou. And no one would ever know!"

"I like the sound of it!" Herbert agreed.

Archibald realized there was a question on his mind. Whether it was new or one that had percolated for a while, he couldn't quite say. "Trubshaw…"

"Yes?"

"Are you…?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you like me?"  
"Well, I can't say I think I would look any good in a gown, but you – "

"Not that," Archibald corrected. "What we spoke of earlier. Boys who…fancy other boys."

"Oh, that." Herbert shook his head. "I'm not. The night we met, I had a rather unfortunate infatuation with Cynthia Grey, and I had tried to speak to her, only for her to refuse to even greet me and instead tell her acquaintances some rather mean things about my manner of dress and my parents. I can hardly think of a more unfortunate person to fancy."

"Try Charles Portley-Rind," Archibald replied. "The same night."

"Oh…" Herbert realized the full implications of what had gone on that night. "He was indefinitely worse. I'm very sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for."

"You deserve a man far better than him," Herbert stated. "A dreamer, like you. As for Charles and Cynthia, they very well deserve each other."

"Earlier tonight, you said you didn't believe you'd be married," Archibald recalled. "Why not?"

"Haven't you noticed after all this time we've spent together?" Herbert pointed out. "I'm odd."

"Yes, you are. And that's your charm, Trubshaw."

"You flatter me!"

"Now, are we going to put you in a pair of high shoes, or not?"

Herbert and Archibald left the riverbank, taking the jelly jar with them – Herbert was sure it would come in handy as part of some device or another. They started out across the bridge back into town.

Archibald caught Herbert looking over the side of the bridge. "What are you looking at?"  
"I can see the boat," Herbert answered.

The bridge was old, and had not been given maintenance in a long while. It was practically a Portley-Rind tradition to ignore complaints of bits of town breaking down, especially when it came to crumbling bridges. The stones directly underneath Herbert's feet and part of the railing immediately gave way, plunging Herbert down into the waters below with a scream.

"TRUBSHAW!" Archibald was thrown into a panic, his heart racing. Without a second thought, he dove over the side of the bridge after Herbert, plunging into the river water.

Herbert was miraculously easy to locate; Archibald's hand brushed against his arm almost immediately. Archibald gathered Herbert's body into his arms, making a direct course upward, desperately hoping it wasn't too late as he broke the water's skin and entered the sphere of air. It took him a moment to realize Herbert was laughing.

"What's FUNNY?" Archibald snapped. "You very nearly drowned!"

"No, I didn't!" Herbert argued. "I was just about to swim my way to the surface!"

"Why are you LAUGHING?"

"Because I fell right off the bridge and into the water! It's self-writing comedy!"

Archibald let go of Herbert, pushing him away. The duo tread water for a moment, Archibald glaring sullenly at the still-smiling Herbert, before Archibald turned to swim in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" Herbert called after him.

"Might as well get your blasted boat now that we're down here!" Archibald called back.

Herbert made for the opposite bank, and Archibald arrived there some time afterward, bringing the small boat with him. He roughly shoved the contraption at Herbert. "I thought you were going to die, you know."

"And I'm very grateful you came to save me."

"I can't take my eyes off you for a moment, can I?"

"Give me more credit than THAT, Archibald!"

On the way back to Snatcher's Stitches, Archibald lightened up about the whole incident, mostly just glad that Herbert was safe and sound. He silently stole in and out of the shop, carrying with him a pair of high-heeled shoes. "Just be careful with them," he whispered as he and Herbert moved to the adjacent alley.

Herbert eagerly stepped into the shoes, standing somewhat shakily. "You're right," he observed. "They're really not bad – "

He stumbled and flailed to keep his balance. "I'll get the hang of it," he told Archibald, who was watching with a rather wide grin.

Herbert decided to prove himself by walking the length of the alley and coming back. And he very nearly made it; it was only a couple steps away from returning to his point of origin that he lost balance completely and went tumbling.

Archibald was there to catch him in a quick stride, his arms hooking underneath Herbert's and stopping him before he could hit the stone hard.

"I seem to be falling every which way tonight," Herbert laughed. "Quite lucky I've got you to catch me."

"Yes…quite," Archibald muttered, wondering all over again how Herbert was completely unable to hear his heartbeat, as it was thundering in his own ears. "The fact remains that I can not only skate circles about you, but walk circles about you in these shoes as well."

"Care to prove it?" Herbert asked mischievously.

Archibald hadn't expected that. "I think I will. Just give me the shoes first."

They performed a swap of shoes, and Archibald kept his gaze and a sly grin fixed upon Herbert as he walked, skipped, even turned a twirl in the high-heeled footwear.

"I should have known!" Herbert cried. "After all, you're so graceful on the ice."

As of that moment, Archibald could take little more. "The hour's grown quite late. We should part ways."

"Well, all right," Herbert replied, gathering up his boat. "I'll see you soon!"

"I'll be seeing you soon as well."

...

After replacing the shoes, Archibald rushed to his room, closing the door quietly and quickly. His heartbeat seemed all the more thunderous now that he was no longer in the company of a fellow human being. Images and sensations rushed through his mind: hands brushing on the way to the same jelly jar, that kind and accepting smile, clutching tight to the body of the one he'd thought might drown, breaking his fall, hearing his praise, hearing his laughter. And he knew there was one final secret he couldn't tell Herbert Trubshaw, not ever.

A squeak emitted from the cage across the room, as though Framley could sense his master's disquiet. "Framley," Archibald hissed, "something's happened, and I'm not quite sure how to handle it. Might as well tell you; I can't tell anyone else."

He moved even closer to the cage, whispering in the softest of voices, "I think I've fallen in love with Herbert Trubshaw."


	5. Miss Travis

5\. Miss Travis

It was a great testament to Herbert Trubshaw's friendship with Archibald Snatcher that the former was not only able to get the latter to agree to participate in flying a kite, but in making one as well.

Archibald hadn't seen the point of it. Why watch something flap about uselessly in the sky? One might as well watch birds (which was apparently something else people did that made no sense to Archibald). But Herbert had been so excited about the concept, especially of the idea that he could build the frame and string of the kite while Archibald provided the fabric to catch the wind, and Archibald found himself committing to the kite project with nary a complaint.

The boys had both reached the age of sixteen, and very little had changed between them. They chose to schedule their kite-flying adventure as a rare daytime excursion, as the night sky was not optimal for viewing a kite high in the sky. On their way down the hill to the river, they caught the unmistakable scent of smoke.

"You don't suppose someone's in trouble, do you?" Herbert asked worriedly, quickening his pace and rounding the corner to see the source of the smell. Before Archibald could answer, the boys were greeted by the sight of a mass of black smoke pouring out of the windows and doors of a tall, thin house. Faint cries could be heard from inside.

"Someone's in there!" Herbert realized out loud.

"Trubshaw, NO," Archibald pleaded.

"Someone's got to help them!" Herbert dropped the kite, rushing toward the door of the house so as to slam into it with his full weight, leading with his shoulder.

"Trubshaw, don't you DARE," Archibald snapped. "Not unless you WANT to get killed."

Herbert hit the door and bounced off. Only slightly shaken, he tried once more to break down the door in the name of rescue.

"If you go in there, I am NOT coming after you!" Archibald added. "It'll be your own fault!"

"Hang on, whoever's in there!" Herbert called at the door. "I'm coming to get you out!" He slammed at the door again and bounced right off.

Archibald realized he was fighting a losing battle with both Herbert and himself. The next time Herbert charged the door, he ran right alongside him, and the combined momentum of the pair was just enough to break the door out of its frame. The two boys rushed into the house, following the smoke's trail down into a basement; the cries grew louder.

And just as they arrived, they saw a girl about their age, dressed in blue and with dark hair pulled back into messy ponytails, pouring a bucket of water onto a smoking mechanical contraption that itself resembled a bucket set atop a mess of cogs and levers. "No, no, NO!" she moaned. "No, it's all gone wrong! You weren't supposed to catch fire! You were only supposed to – "

She then became aware of the fact that she wasn't alone. Sheepishly, she turned to look at her would-be rescuers. "Oh, hello," she said with a guilty smile and wave.

"We've come to save you from the…fire," Herbert explained.

The girl replied with a nervous laugh. "No fire here. Well, there was, but I've put it out. Everything's all right now. Sorry to make you worry."

"That might have been a good thing to know before we BROKE YOUR DOOR IN," Archibald growled.

"Oops…" the girl squeaked. "Don't worry!" She put up and waved her hands. "I'll tell my parents it was all my fault! Oh, they won't be happy about any of this at all…and I was so CERTAIN I'd gotten my machine to work properly."

At a certain word, Herbert's attention switched tracks: "Machine? Were you building something?"

"It's washing day," the girl explained, "so I thought perhaps things would go faster if I made a machine to do it for me. See? The washing tub vibrates, and the clothes get tumbled around the board set inside of it…or at least, that's how it was supposed to go. What it actually ended up doing was just creating a lot of smoke. And now I'm to be even farther behind on the washing."

"Not to mention what we've done to your door," Herbert said mournfully. An idea then occurred to him. "Might I help you finish up your work?"

"You've no need to do that," the girl told him. "It's my mess. I'll clean it all up."

"Far be it from me to abandon someone in need, even if it is only washing clothes," Herbert told her. He then turned to Archibald; "You don't have to stay, of course. You can go out with the kite. Or do whatever you'd rather do, if the kite isn't to your liking."

"Of course the kite's to my liking!" Archibald blurted almost automatically. "After I put all that blue on it, it had better be." He truly did not want to spend time in a stranger's basement helping her wash clothes, but even less did he want to go back outside and try to enjoy his time alone. He was still terribly smitten with Herbert, and to that end, he was willing to commit to such tedium in order to keep their arranged date. "Though I think I'll chip in with the washing as well. You'll probably do it wrong anyway." He gave Herbert a playful shove, which Herbert returned.

"Well, both of you have my UTMOST gratitude," the girl sighed, removing the washing tub from its vibrating base and bringing out several garments to toss into the water.

As she set up the tub for cleaning, Herbert asked, "Might we know your name?"

"It's Marjorie," the girl replied. "Marjorie Travis. And yours?"

"Herbert Trubshaw," Herbert answered, extending a hand. Marjorie took it, and Herbert shook it firmly.

He shakes a lady's hand instead of kissing it, and it's passed off so casually, Archibald thought, but when I kiss a man's hand, I find myself abjectly ostracized.

"And you?" Marjorie approached Archibald.

Archibald didn't know exactly what it was about Marjorie he didn't like, but she was in some way annoying him greatly. She had been ever since she'd shown off her makeshift "washing machine." Still, in the name of decorum, he took Marjorie's hand and very briefly kissed it in greeting. "Archibald Snatcher. Pleasure to meet you." Even though he didn't really mean it.

"And a pleasure to meet you!" Marjorie replied.

Soon, the trio was settled around the washing tub, all working away at various garments with their own washing boards. Herbert couldn't help himself from looking around the basement, which resembled a small workshop. "You're an inventor, aren't you?" he said in awe.

"Sometimes," Marjorie told him. "Sometimes, I'm just a builder. I built the pencil sharpener on that desk there. It works better than the ones my parents gave me."

"And what's that?" Herbert indicated a large hunk of metal stuck to the ceiling; several smaller metal tools were attached to it.

"Oh, that…" Marjorie muttered. "That was supposed to be a storage magnet for my tools. I thought, why not stick them all to the ceiling with a magnet and take them down whenever I needed them? Then I wouldn't have to clutter up the desk! But the magnet turned out to be too strong, and now I can't unstick anything from it. I probably should have just used hooks to hang them from the ceiling instead."

"Probably," Archibald confirmed.

"And then there's the…" Marjorie then interrupted herself; "I'm talking too much about my contraptions, aren't I? I keep forgetting it's not proper conversation."

"Oh, I think it's very good conversation," Herbert told her. "I think all of these things are brilliant!"

"You do?" Marjorie blushed.

"I'm a builder and inventor myself," Herbert went on. "I've actually been trying to put together a vehicle that will travel the streets powered by an engine for the past few years."

"Really? That sounds fascinating! I'd LOVE to see it!"

"I'd be quite happy to show you!"

Archibald watched as Herbert and Marjorie seemed to glow more brightly in each other's presence, communing over their shared interest in mechanics.

"I find it strange that I haven't seen you about."

"I don't really go out, actually. I spend most of my time in here, working on my projects."

"To tell you the truth, I mostly go out at night, anyway."

One of them a young boy, and one of them a girl the same age.

"You mustn't be afraid of Boxtrolls, then."

"Absolutely not!"

"I've always wondered if they really were as much of monsters as people said. I've never SEEN them eat a human being, after all. I don't think anyone has. It's mostly talk."

They hadn't taken their eyes off each other since they'd begun conversing, and Archibald was beginning to realize exactly what it was he disliked about Marjorie Travis. It had to do with the way she was making Herbert smile.

"And what about you, Archibald?" Marjorie asked, suddenly realizing she was excluding one of the group. "Do you build things, too?"

"No," Archibald replied. "I don't. I've other concerns."

"Such as?"

"Helping to put my family's business on the map. A Snatcher is going to be the next to wear the White Hat, you know, whether it's my father or me."

"Archibald is actually a songwriter," Herbert broke in. "He's also quite deft with a sewing needle."

"Snatcher!" Marjorie realized. "That's where I've heard that name! You're the tailor's son! Your family does VERY good work, you know."

"And I'm responsible for quite a bit of that work," Archibald clarified.

"If they picked out White Hats based on their ability to make good clothing," Marjorie told him, "you'd certainly be in within the year! I think you even made some of these things we're washing!"

Archibald was about to thank Marjorie, but something in her tone and her words held him back. "What was that supposed to mean? White Hats are chosen based on the work they contribute to the town, and clothing is a staple of society."

"Oh, dear…" Marjorie said softly. "I'm afraid it's never been that way. My parents tried to tell me it was like that, too, but I've looked into the history of the White Hats, and as far back as they've been established, they've only been the wealthy and the sons of the wealthy. Oh, and never the daughters. Perhaps it's the greatest tragedy of our town. It's all just a great illusion to make us think they know what's best for this town, when really, they don't give a whit about the crumbling bridges or the fact that no one's yet built a hospital that will take children."

"You know NOTHING about the White Hats," Archibald snarled. "How could you? You're ONLY a girl."

"I'm a SMART girl," Marjorie snapped before immediately realizing her mistake, clapping both hands over her mouth. "I didn't mean to say you WEREN'T smart," she said through the skin of her hands.

"I think we should all take a step back – " Herbert began.

Archibald dropped the cloth he'd been washing right back into the tub. "I'll be back at the shop, finishing up some work I really should have been doing all day," he said, looking directly at Herbert. "I'll take the kite back home. Come by when you want to pick it up."

With that, he stormed out of the room and up the stairs.

There was a long silence before Marjorie lowered her hands from her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "Though I suppose I'm saying it to the wrong person."

"I think you're quite smart," Herbert told Marjorie.

"For a girl?"

"For anyone. What you said about the White Hats is something I've suspected for a very long time. But becoming one of them has always been Archibald's dream, and I don't want to stand in the way of it. I've tried to convince him he doesn't need a White Hat to be happy. He's very smart and creative, quite like you…just in a different way. And the truth is, if he were a White Hat, he'd do more for this town than any of the lords ever have. I know it's a slim chance, but I think part of me believes he'll make his dream come true. And a bigger part of me truly WANTS him to."

"I really shouldn't have said a thing," Marjorie moaned.

"Oh, don't be sad!" Herbert said quickly. "You were right. You just said the right thing at the wrong time, is all."

"You're a good friend, Herbert," Marjorie said. "To him, and, well, I don't know if I can call you my friend just yet, but you're very kind to help me with the washing. Though…" She cracked a smile. "I think my parents are going to have a hard time believing you broke down the door all by yourself."

"We'll just tell them I'm stronger than I look!"

Herbert and Marjorie laughed, catching each other's eye and then immediately looking away.

"As to what you said about Boxtrolls, though…" Herbert began.

...

The next day, Amelia knocked on her son's bedroom door, waiting for a "Come in" before entering. "Young Master Trubshaw is here," she announced, "and he wants to know if you still have a kite."

Archibald cast aside the book he'd been reading, immediately fetching the kite from its resting place. A day out with Herbert would certainly make up for the misadventure of the day before –

"And he's brought a friend with him. Miss…Travis, I believe she said her name was."

Or not.

"Friends already, I suppose," Archibald muttered as his mother took her leave. "I already know where this is going. He wants all his friends to be able to be together, just like with those trolls. Well, perhaps she isn't so bad after all. We might've just gotten off on the wrong foot."

He carried the kite gently downstairs to find Marjorie trying on an ornate royal blue hat while Amelia and Herbert looked on. "This is BEAUTIFUL!" Marjorie gushed. "Absolutely beautiful, Mrs. Snatcher!"

"Why, thank you," Amelia replied, quite charmed.

"And it looks beautiful on you!" Herbert complimented.

It was a wonder Archibald didn't snap the kite frame in half over his knee then and there. He'd tried on that hat the previous night in order to take his mind off the first Marjorie Travis incident, and he'd thought it made him look simply gorgeous. He'd wondered, if Herbert saw him in it, if Herbert would think the same. And now Marjorie was showing it off in public – she could do that, of course, being a girl – and Herbert loved it.

Forcing a smile, Archibald walked the rest of the way down the stairs and made his presence known. "Miss Travis!" he greeted. "What a surprise!"

"Archibald!" Marjorie gasped. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for yesterday. I didn't mean…" She quickly put the hat back in its resting place. "I didn't realize how much all that meant to you, and I shouldn't have said a thing."

"Water under the bridge, Miss Travis," Archibald told her. "Though I must ask what exactly you're doing here."

"That would be my fault," Herbert answered. "I thought it would be a good idea for all of us to do something other than chores together. First and most importantly of all, to mend fences. And second, well, I'm quite fond of both of you, and so I thought – "

Archibald put up a hand. "Say no more. This day belongs to the…three of us."

...

On the way down to the riverbank, Archibald mostly kept quiet, observing the interactions of Herbert and Marjorie. It had only been a day, after all. They couldn't be that close. Only barely friends. It wasn't as though he had anything to really worry about…not even the fact that a girl so infectiously bubbly as Herbert (though she didn't pull it off nearly as well) and sharing his biggest interest was getting so close to the boy Archibald loved.

It wasn't as though such a thing should matter, as Herbert had already stated that he wasn't the sort that could reciprocate those feelings to Archibald anyway.

"Are you all right?" Marjorie asked, falling into step alongside Archibald. "You've been awful quiet."

"Perfectly fine, Miss Travis," Archibald said smoothly.

"You can call me 'Marjorie,' you know," Marjorie encouraged.

"Duly noted."

"I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for him to use your given name," Herbert laughed.

The blue kite was raised to fly in the wind, which was quite breezy that day. Herbert held the string in place. "I do love that color," Marjorie said happily.

It was Archibald's other favorite color besides red; the one he felt he looked the absolute best in. He knew Herbert would tell Marjorie it was his idea if he didn't say anything, so he spoke up briefly: "Why, thank you, Miss Travis."

"Herbert said you two worked on this together," Marjorie brought up. "Did Fish and Shoe help you as well?"

That caught Archibald off guard. "As in…"

"The Boxtrolls," Marjorie said softly. "Herbert said you knew about them."

"I do know about them," Archibald replied, his voice gaining a slight edge. "I wasn't aware YOU would know about them after only a day."

"I'm introducing them all tonight," Herbert explained. "Marjorie understood right away when I said they weren't monsters. I knew she would believe me."

"As though I wouldn't have believed you for the first year we knew each other, Trubshaw?"

"We were younger," Herbert said softly. "I wasn't sure how to proceed."

So now Marjorie knew Herbert's biggest secret, and after but a day.

Archibald realized Herbert and Marjorie were both staring at him in wary anticipation. "I'm not about to storm off," he sighed. "It just came as a surprise, that's all. Best forget about it. I do hope you enjoy meeting Trubshaw's troll friends, Miss Travis."

He hoped this would be the night Fish actually did decide he had a taste for human blood and would devour Marjorie right in front of Herbert's eyes.

But as the three spent more time together beneath the kite, soon they fell into conversation, and the afternoon became almost pleasant.

...

After that, Herbert, Archibald, and Marjorie became somewhat of a trio for a short time. Archibald tried his very best to stomach Marjorie and her proximity to Herbert. After all, he didn't have any confirmation that there was anything between them, and Herbert would be the sort to become friends with a woman without the thought of romance between them. Still, she only made Archibald more and more annoyed, and he did his absolute best to join her and Herbert on all of their excursions – testing out the vehicle and watching it break down for what seemed like the millionth time, walking lazily along the banks of the river, sledding once the first snow came – simply so that she and Herbert would not have much time to themselves, where Archibald couldn't keep an eye on them.

But Herbert grew perceptive, and while he wasn't sure exactly why Archibald was so uncomfortable with Marjorie, he figured out quickly that he was, and suggested that he spend time with each of them separately.

"It's a shame that Master Trubshaw doesn't bring Miss Travis around the house anymore these days," Amelia remarked. "You know, Archibald…I had rather thought you and she might make a cute couple."

That had only caused Archibald to literally flip a chair over end on his way storming out of the room. Amelia wasn't sure what she'd said wrong; didn't her son see the appeal in a nice girl like that? But she refrained from discussing Marjorie in such a manner in the future.

Christmas came, and Herbert and Archibald had set aside that day for themselves, swapping gifts before heading down to the river with their skates, as they had done for the past three years. There was a difference this year, however. Herbert seemed to only want to talk about one thing.

"And then she told me the funniest joke," Herbert bubbled as he laced his skates. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Not particularly," Archibald grunted.

Herbert only then seemed to realize he'd been going on about Marjorie for the past hour with very little of a break. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting."

"Forgetting what?"

"That you and Marjorie don't quite get on." He paused. "Why don't you get on, anyhow?"

"What do you mean? We get on quite well."

"Don't lie to me, Archibald," Herbert sighed. "I could tell you weren't comfortable with her. That's why I thought it would be better if I spent different days with each of you. Did she do something to offend you?"

"Nothing of the sort, Trubshaw."

"Then what is it? You know you can tell me anything."

Instead of giving Herbert an answer, Archibald returned a question: "Do you fancy Miss Travis?"

"What?" Herbert went immediately red.

"Don't YOU lie to ME, Trubshaw. You always get daft and giggly around her, and there's this sparkle in your eyes whenever you talk about her."

"Well, I…" Herbert lowered his voice. "I actually do fancy her ever so slightly. I haven't wanted to bring it up because…well, I haven't wanted to rush it. She is, first and foremost, my friend, and I don't want to put that bond in danger." Realization kicked in. "Is that what it is? Are you afraid our friendship will fall apart if someone like that comes into my life?"

"The word isn't 'afraid,'" Archibald sighed, "but otherwise, that's a fairly accurate description of the situation."

"Archibald," Herbert said sternly, "you've been my oldest and dearest friend, and I can't imagine what it would take to change that. Even if Marjorie and I become married, I will never forget or neglect you. I don't want to lose you, and I certainly don't want to hurt you. And if I come close to doing either, promise me you'll tell me."

"I will."

"I'm sorry if I've been doing that already, Archibald. It's just…when you fancy someone, you lose sight of a lot of other important things, sometimes."

Archibald very nearly said "I know" before realizing he couldn't pin such deep sympathy on his brief experience falling for Charles Portley-Rind. He tied the last of his skate laces, standing up on the ice and extending a hand downward to Herbert. "Let's just skate, shall we?"

"Of course!" Herbert let Archibald pull him to his feet before gliding along on his own. "I think I've finally mastered the art!"

They were on their own for a few precious moments. Then a speeding force came gliding across the ice to collide with Herbert, knocking him to the ground. "SORRY!" the interloper cried. "I'm sorry, I'm – Herbert?"

No. It couldn't be, Archibald thought. It wasn't.

But of course, it was.

"Marjorie!" Herbert replied as he disentangled himself from the girl. "I didn't realize you'd be here!"

"I didn't realize YOU'D be here!"

"Archibald and I come here every year," Herbert explained, getting to his feet. "Have you been coming here all these years?"

"This is my first year," Marjorie explained, propping herself up on her knees. "The first time I've ever tried skating, actually. I thought it couldn't be that hard. It's all about the principles of balance and center of gravity." She tried to stand, but wobbled.

Herbert immediately extended a hand to her, and she gratefully took it, letting him help her up. Almost instantly, Herbert regretted making the physical contact, thinking perhaps he'd overstepped his boundaries again. "It's good to see you, Marjorie, but we'll have to catch up some other time. This is Archibald's and my special time together. It's our tradition."

"I understand," Marjorie said sincerely. "You two go have fun. I've got my hands full trying to figure out these skates."

Archibald wasted no time in gliding away from Marjorie, and Herbert followed. "This day is about you and me," Herbert promised. "And nothing will change that."

A sudden high-pitched yelp alerted the boys to the fact that Marjorie had fallen over yet again. Herbert and Archibald turned to see her sprawled out on the ice.

"…Go to her," Archibald sighed.

"No!" Herbert protested. "When I said this was our day, I meant it!"

"Look at her," Archibald argued. "She needs someone to show her the ropes. And you're quite right. You have mastered the art of skating beyond what I can teach. But most of all…you fancy her. Go be with her."

"Are you…entirely certain?" Herbert asked cautiously.

"Very certain."

In truth, Archibald just knew that he, Herbert, and Marjorie couldn't share the same lake without Herbert wanting to watch Marjorie and wishing he could help her with her balance problems the entire time. No matter what Herbert promised, Archibald was convinced that Marjorie would still get in the way. He'd had his suspicions confirmed; Herbert was smitten.

"I promise I'll make it up to you," Herbert told Archibald as he skated toward Marjorie.

Archibald simply smiled and waved…until Herbert turned away. Archibald's smile quickly inverted, and he scowled as he watched Herbert help Marjorie up, watched him take her hands and skate backward as she skated forward, keeping her from falling. As though Archibald hadn't given Herbert all the skating skill he had. As though he hadn't done so in much closer proximity.

He glided to the edge of the river, replaced his shoes, and went home.

Entering his room, he sighed, "Framley, absolutely everything is going wrong."

There was absolutely no sound from the cage at the other end of the room: not a click, not a squeak.

Archibald's heart skipped a beat as he rushed to the cage to see the worst: Framley's dead body lay still in the cage's center. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Three years was a surprisingly long life for a rat.

Archibald's scowl returned in greater force. "Never mind," he muttered. "Never mind it, never mind Trubshaw, never mind Miss Travis, and never mind YOU. It wasn't as though you were ever going to amount to anything. You were always just a lowly, stupid RAT."


	6. Guest of Dishonor

6\. Guest of Dishonor

After that, the years seemed to pass all too quickly. Herbert divided his time, as usual, between Archibald and Marjorie, though the latter was getting more and more of his attention, and it seemed that Herbert and Marjorie were indeed truly falling in love as Archibald watched from the sidelines. They did complement each other well. Rarely did an unkind word pass between them.

So be it, then.

Archibald could live without Herbert. He had other things to think about. Once he'd reached adulthood, he was thrust into the responsibility of having to earn his own living. So far, he'd been doing exactly that at Snatcher's Stitches, taking up the needle of the family business. And well he had, for Amelia and Gabriel were showing their age; Archibald noticed on most days, when his mother held a sewing needle, her fingers trembled, and it was only with great difficulty that she could get the stitch exactly where she wanted it to go. Lucky she was, Archibald thought, that her son was more dexterous and a bit more creative.

Herbert, on the other side of the coin, had attempted to perfect a few of his inventions to sell, but ended up working as a repairman instead, using his gift of mechanical skill to stop pipes from leaking and lamps from malfunctioning. Marjorie had volunteered for the same line of work, but was turned down for her gender. There were some things in Cheesebridge one could only get by being a man.

But quite others one could get by being a woman, as Archibald was to find out.

He had been keeping a secret project in his bedroom. For a while, he had told himself it was only to practice his skill as a tailor, but once he'd reached a certain age, he realized he couldn't play such childish games of denial with himself. He was sewing himself a dress to his exact measurements, and while he knew far better than to tell everyone else, he stopped caring about his own stigma toward the project. It was quite a lovely dress, anyhow, royal blue.

And all the while, Archibald still believed that someone in his family was destined for the all-important White Hat. As Gabriel was getting on in years, it only made sense now that the one to be awarded the honor was Archibald himself. All it would take was one great turnaround event to make the current White Hats see that the Snatchers were perhaps the most pivotal family to all of Cheesebridge. Any day now, opportunity would come knocking on the door.

And one day, as Archibald was thinking this as he hemmed a pair of pants for the latest order, there actually did sound a knock on the door, and he thought it must be serendipity. It turned out to be Herbert.

"Hello," Herbert greeted. Somehow, fourteen whole years had passed, and he and Archibald were both thirty years old. Herbert's smile was still the same as that he'd borne as a thirteen-year-old: youthful, sincere, welcoming.

"Hello," Archibald replied. Seeing Herbert still made his heart beat a little faster, but at the same time, it made his stomach turn ever so slightly. Elation. Disgust. "What brings you here, Trubshaw?"

"Well, I've…I've come with very great news," Herbert announced. "At least, I think it's great news. The greatest news I've ever heard in my life."

Archibald grew suspicious. "You…can't possibly have earned a White Hat."

Herbert shook his head. "It's something much better. Marjorie and I are to be married!"

Like a blow to the face. When, Archibald wondered, will I stop caring? It was truly pathetic how much he could be jostled by Herbert's words, in his mind. Perhaps it was time to force himself to stop. "…Congratulations," he managed, and Herbert could tell he didn't really mean it.

"Archibald, I…I know you and Marjorie haven't ever gotten on well," Herbert sighed. "But all the same, you're still quite important to me. The second most important person in my life, after her. And I was quite hoping you would be my best man. If you don't, that's quite all right, but – "

"All right, all right, Trubshaw, you don't have to twist my arm." Archibald gave him a smile. "I'll do it."

"Oh, thank you, THANK you!" Herbert flung his arms around his friend in gratitude. This made it exponentially more difficult for Archibald to stop caring. "You've no idea what it means to me that you'll be there!"

Not half as much as what it means to you that you're marrying her, Archibald thought. But once again, he reminded himself, he had more important things to worry about, such as hats.

"It's just going to be a small affair," Herbert was explaining. "Just our families and close friends at the small church at the edge of town." And he said more, including the date of the wedding – October 30th, as Herbert had fancied being wed on All Hallow's Eve but his family had balked - but Archibald was tuning him out, thinking about how much this wedding was absolutely not the opportunity he'd so craved.

And when Herbert left, Archibald didn't know whether or not he was glad he'd agreed to attend it. His take on the subject slowly settled into apathy. After all, what mattered far more to him as of that moment was prestige, and that was something he hadn't yet got.

...

The following week, there came a knock on the door of Snatcher's Stitches, and Archibald was once again to answer it. He was surprised to find Cynthia Grey standing on the other side, and he already wasn't looking forward to whatever she had to say.

"Wonderful news!" she gushed. "Oh, it's just the most wonderful news! Charles Portley-Rind has asked me to marry him!"

"Well, good for you," Archibald seethed through gritted teeth.

"I want you and your family to arrange for all of the gowns and suits!" Cynthia went on. "Only the best will do, after all!"

As it turned out, opportunity had knocked.

Archibald opened the door wide, gesturing into the shop. "Please do forgive my rudeness, Miss Grey," he said charmingly. "Or shall I say the future Lady Portley-Rind?"

At that, the woman outright squealed.

"Do enter," Archibald bade her. Once she had stepped over the threshold, he called back, "OH, MOTHER! FATHER! WE HAVE QUITE AN IMPORTANT GUEST!"

...

In the weeks leading up to the Portley-Rind/Grey wedding, Snatcher's Stitches bustled with activity. Cynthia's passel of bridesmaids, all of whom seemed to look almost exactly the same, took their stations about the shop's interior as Amelia and Gabriel rushed back and forth with lace, shoes, and thread. Archibald himself was assigned to hemming Cynthia's wedding gown, which was a lavish affair that had cost a pretty penny. Dinners would be upscale in the Snatcher household for weeks.

"It was simply the most romantic thing!" Cynthia gushed. "I was at the latest soirée hosted by the Portley-Rinds – you know, only the most important families in town are invited at all to that sort of thing – and over to me walks Charles, telling me that he's simply awestruck by how beautiful I am and that he's been in love with me since he first saw me! And to think we'd hardly ever spoken before that day, but now, I'm about to marry the richest and most powerful man in all of Cheesebridge!"

Of course, Archibald thought. All you had to do was be rich and look pretty and you'd catch the eye of those in power. He desperately wanted to take one of the pins he was using to put up the gown's hem and jab it into Cynthia's ankle, but he knew that injuring his richest customer was absolutely bad for business. Working on the wedding of the soon-to-be-newest White Hat and Lord of the town was sure to bring status to the Snatcher family.

And if it didn't, what would?

"You really do an excellent job with hemming," Cynthia told Archibald. "It almost makes one forget your more…disreputable qualities."

Archibald didn't dignify that with an answer.

"Since you've done so much for the occasion," Cynthia went on, "I suppose it would only be proper of me to extend an invitation to your family."

"An invitation?" Archibald repeated. "To your wedding to future Lord Portley-Rind?"

"Yes," Cynthia confirmed, though the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if it was a good idea after all. "After all, it will be good to have tailors about in case of a ripped seam on the big day."

"And what date would the lovely occasion be, again?" Archibald asked.

"October 30th," Cynthia replied. "Beastly date, I know. Far too close to All Hallow's Eve. But it was the only time we could book the larger chapel."

Of course it would be the same date as Herbert and Marjorie's wedding. Archibald had to debate on it for only a short time. One of those events would allow him to rub elbows with the wealthy and powerful, to put in his bid for a White Hat. The other sorely lacked in that department. And as a bonus, one of those events didn't involve Archibald having to watch the subject of his affections give himself away to another.

"I would be most honored to attend," he replied. "You can count on my attendance."

"Oh, wonderful!" Cynthia said insincerely, already regretting her decision…though she didn't know what other option she would have if she encountered a ripped seam.

All that was left was to tell Herbert that he was down a best man. But Archibald didn't worry about that. He could spin his words better when the time came. For the moment, he focused on the careful arrangement of pins.

...

The Trubshaw wedding was indeed a small and intimate affair, without many frills to speak of. Before the ceremony, Marjorie, clad in a simple white dress, peered out from her dressing room. She couldn't help the fact that her stomach was growling madly, and she was hoping to find something to calm its hunger before she had to be focused on such more important things as becoming the wife of the love of her life.

As she crept down the hall, she heard a voice behind her: "You look absolutely stunning."

Smiling, she turned to face Herbert, who was done up in a simple suit. "Don't you know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?"

"I've never believed in bad luck," Herbert replied. "I think you make your own luck, really."

"Would you walk with me to find some food, then?" Marjorie asked. "I'm dreadfully hungry."

"Then you shall feast!" Herbert proclaimed dramatically, pointing down the hall.

"Perhaps not feast just yet," Marjorie laughed. "But a little something would be appreciated."

They walked the back hallways of the small church, and though Herbert put on all the airs of being perfectly happy, Marjorie knew he was still bothered by something rather weighty. "For what it's worth," she offered him, "I'm sorry they couldn't be here."

"It's all right," Herbert sighed. "At least when it comes to Fish and Shoe, I understand why they're not here. Inviting them would have been a risk to their safety, what with all these people about who think Boxtrolls are cannibals. I hope one day, it won't be that way. But Archibald…he gave me his word. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The Portley-Rind wedding might just be the gateway to that hat he's always dreamed of. Or…at least, I know he thinks that way."

He was surprised when Marjorie leaned over and wrapped her arms about him comfortingly. "I wish he were here too," she muttered.

"But you two never got on."

"But YOU two did."

Herbert stopped in his tracks to return Marjorie's embrace. "I'm with you now," he whispered to her, "and that's the most important thing of all. Thank you for being here today. For being with me as long as you've been."

Marjorie squeezed her fiancé a bit tighter. "I should be the one thanking you. I know you don't believe in luck, but I think it was a stroke of very good luck that you came barging into my basement to save me from a fire that was already out fourteen years ago."

"HERbert!" Herbert's mother came across the mostly-happy couple from the opposite direction. "Don't you know you're not supposed to see the bride before her wedding?" She peeled the groom-to-be off the bride-to-be and hastily shuffled him down the hall.

"I'll see you soon!" Herbert called back to Marjorie.

"I can't wait!" Marjorie replied before continuing her quest for a bit of food.

...

The Portley-Rind wedding, on the other hand, was lavish in every sense of the word. Everyone shone in bright ruffly gowns and pristine tuxedos, all of which had to be kept under the watchful eyes of the three Snatchers to prevent stains, tears, and other forms of ruination. Already they'd had to repair three seams and put two heels back on broken shoes.

But when all was said and done, Archibald thought as he sat in the very back pew of the chapel, he'd snagged a definite victory the moment the rear doors of the nave opened up to reveal the absolutely glowing Cynthia in her five layers of frills. Archibald stole a quick look up at Charles near the altar; the redhead was gobsmacked. How much of it was because of Cynthia, Archibald wondered, and how much of it was because of what she'd been wearing? Or was that giving the Snatchers too much credit?

The ceremony itself was a snore. Archibald caught himself nearly falling asleep twice as scripture after scripture was read. When the priest overseeing the union declared marriage a sacred rite to only be shared between man and woman, Archibald realized, thinking about it for perhaps the first and only time in his life, that he never would be married. Not unless he had to feign interest in some woman or another in order to be viewed as a proper candidate for the White Hats, but then again, he thought, if all women were like Marjorie, he'd sooner die.

It seemed to take forever for the rites to end, and then the wedding party moved on to the literal party at the Portley-Rind manor, with guests in tow. And Archibald found himself in relatively the same position he'd been in at age thirteen when he was present at Charles' birthday celebration. As Charles and Cynthia whirled about on the floor, followed by the rest of the guests, Archibald was sidelined. No one wished to speak with him or dance with him. Nor did he wish to speak or dance with anyone else. He was soberly reminded of how much he hated these social gatherings. Even his parents were out on the floor, waltzing slowly.

Archibald had done his part when he'd fixed the last broken heel. His name was already known among the upper class for putting together the gorgeous confection that Cynthia was wearing. He figured there wasn't much left to do but leave. He gave his parents and no one else the grace of saying goodbye, muttering that he had "work to catch up on" and needed to get a head start. Then he was quickly storming away from the chapel and down the street, glaring angrily at the stones in the road. So they would only pay attention to him for as long as they needed him, and it was back to pretending he didn't exist, was it?

Then a thought began to take shape in his mind, and it was quite a ridiculous thought. The sort of thought that began as a silly daydream, a what-if that had no business being. After all, he didn't really care about silly parties, did he? And the idea that had occurred to him was nothing more than a potential way to actually enjoy the festivities. Simply put, he thought that if he really wanted everyone else to pay attention to him, he could return in another guise.

He expected this idea to get worse the further he went, but with every step he took, it seemed to only get better. He realized he wanted to try it, at least once. Perhaps he did care about those ridiculous parties after all. Perhaps he wanted social recognition in more dimensions than one. Perhaps he wanted to pull off the plan for its own sake, because if now wasn't the time to break it out, where would he ever be able to?

He hurried home. Even though he was alone in the shop, he still locked the doors of his chambers tightly, knowing if anyone saw his transformation, he was as good as dead. He quickly but delicately changed from his formals into the royal blue gown.

Archibald realized that whether or not he'd been conscious of it, he'd been putting this plan together for a long time. For he had also acquired a red wig one day, claiming it was for a customer with thinning hair. He had then teased it into a complex updo so as to prevent its crafter from ever recognizing it when it was worn. As he swept his own hair up to hide it beneath this wig, Archibald realized he had far fewer of his natural locks than he once had. When had he lost so much of it? Though it wasn't as if it mattered.

The final step was to steal into his mother's washroom and raid her makeup. She had been wearing it less and less these days in her old age. She certainly wouldn't notice if such a minimal amount was missing.

When Archibald checked himself over in the mirror, he was stunned; upon first glimpse, he couldn't actually believe he was looking at himself. He was convinced that somehow, a beauty of a redheaded woman had gotten between himself and the mirror. Pitching his voice up as high as he could, he said softly, "I'm absolutely unrecognizable." No, the voice was still too much of a giveaway. It took him some experimentation to disguise it with a strong accent; "Is that better? Oh, why, YES, that is MUCH better! Gentlemen, I do hope you're equipped to meet the extraordinary Madame Frou Frou."

And within a short span of time, it was Frou Frou who returned to the Portley-Rind manor. Archibald was quite pleased to notice that the doorman had very obviously thought about asking him if he were one of the guests, but upon beholding the sight of "her" in full, had decided against it, simply holding the door open wide, a giddy smile on his face. Archibald turned to fire a wink at the doorman just to toy with him further. This was already going better than expected.

When he entered the room, there seemed to be a shift in the atmosphere. Eyes were now turned upon him in droves. Perhaps, he thought, he'd just gotten lucky with the doorman, and his disguise was too obvious to everyone else, and he'd just made his own ruination, turning up dressed as a woman in front of every important personage in Cheesebridge –

"Pardon me," one of the men said, his voice dripping with lust. "But could you spare me a dance? After all, you're QUITE a beauty."

"Pardon YOU!" Another man shoved him aside. "My lady, I would appreciate it if I were to be your first dance instead. HE isn't good enough for someone of your caliber."

"As if she'd want to dance with either of you!" A third shoved them both aside. "You haven't even asked her name! What…is your name, my lady?"

"They call me Madame Frou Frou," Archibald replied coyly, extending a hand.

And just like that, everything changed. Suddenly, every man in the room wanted to talk to him, wanted to dance with him, was fixated upon him. A great many of the women avoided this "Madame Frou Frou" deliberately, jealous that "she" had stolen the hearts of all of the men present, but a few did eagerly approach for conversation, wanting to be graced by the beauty and popularity of this uninvited guest whom nobody seemed to care about the origins of.

But the best part of it, Archibald relished, was the way that Charles Portley-Rind – newly married, supposedly infatuated with Cynthia – kept making a point of staring at him in awe. Cynthia finally noticed and pulled his earlobe sharply to make him stop ogling Frou Frou. This only made Charles careful to direct his gaze when he was sure Cynthia wasn't paying attention.

Archibald still remembered when he thought Charles was an immaculate beauty with whom he had no chance. That the shoe was on the other foot filled him with malicious glee. If only you knew, he thought.

But of course, the point was that no one ever would or could know the truth about Frou Frou's identity. That absolutely would be the best way to tarnish Archibald's reputation forever.

Archibald made a point of leaving the party early in order to beat his parents home. They had greeted him politely, having no idea that they were speaking to their son. Gabriel, of all the men in the room, was the only one who had actually acted like a decent human being, merely greeting Frou Frou like an acquaintance rather than a dessert he wished to devour. Snatcher men were sensible like that, it occurred to Archibald. When he did leave, it was with a great sense of happiness. He'd been twirled about the dance floor and asked his opinion on a thousand conversational topics. Within one night of existing to the public, Madame Frou Frou was already closer to obtaining a status than Archibald Snatcher had ever been.

And it certainly wouldn't be her last night out, Archibald thought, hastily inventing her biography on the route homeward.


	7. Those We Lost

7\. Those We Lost

Archibald Snatcher and Herbert Trubshaw had not spoken in months. And it might have taken them even longer if it hadn't been for the cabbages. Pure chance had led them out to market on the same day, causing both of them to approach a streetside produce stand without noticing each other, each inspecting the cabbage of his choice. Deciding the vegetables they held were not up to par, they put the greens back where they had found them, only to reach for the same cabbage. Their hands collided.

"Pardon – " Herbert began, but as he turned to see who he'd inconvenienced, his entire countenance changed entirely to something far more somber than he'd been. "Archibald?"

First things first, when Archibald realized his hand had brushed against Herbert's, his heart had skipped a beat. Apparently old emotional ties didn't die as easily as he wanted them to. He wasn't particularly in the mood to speak to Herbert, but fleeing the scene would just have been bad form. "Trubshaw," he managed at last. "You look like you've been well."

"Have you been well?" Herbert asked, concerned. "I know you probably don't want to speak to me – "

"Whatever gave you that idea?" It came out far more sarcastic than Archibald had intended.

"Well…you know." Herbert's tone grew hushed. "You weren't…there. At our wedding. And the time that's passed since then."

They both became aware that the produce vendor was listening in with eager ears to hear this gossip, and unanimously, wordlessly decided to continue their conversation on a trek away from that stand. "I've had important business," Archibald said coldly as he turned toward the street. "Snatcher's Stitches won't run itself, you know."

"Is it something I've done?" Herbert asked. "If it is, I sincerely apologize."

"Oh, come now, don't do that," Archibald sighed. "It's absolutely beginning to grate my nerves."

"What is?"  
"You being holier-than-thou on every matter that concerns you."

"I'm not trying to be holier-than-thou," Herbert insisted. "I'm merely trying to figure out where I went wrong, that my dearest friend isn't speaking to me!"

"Your dearest friend, am I?" Archibald countered. "After Miss Travis, of course. Oh, I do apologize. MRS. Trubshaw, now, she is."

"It was never meant to be a competition between you," Herbert pleaded. "I know the two of you never got on, but I do love both of you – "

"You only seem to be married to one of us. And what about your little friends - " His voice went hushed: "Underground? I suppose you've only become closer to them. You're practically one of them anyway."

"They're dear to me, of course," Herbert sputtered. "The point is, Archibald, I never meant to lose you by loving anyone else! If I've hurt you, if I've wronged you in any way, then please, tell me what I've done so I can make amends!"

Archibald badly wanted to have a fair argument against Herbert, to tell him exactly what made him such a reprehensible person and a terrible friend. But he didn't. All he had was a man desperate to reclaim the bond he'd lost, and who was doing quite a wonderful job at communicating his own kindness. When Archibald said "You've nothing to apologize for," he knew it was true. "Choosing the Portley-Rind wedding over yours was my decision."

"But why, Archibald?"

"You mean after all this time, you still don't know?" Archibald replied, somewhat in disbelief. "It was the next step toward the White Hat, Herbert! The most influential family in all of Cheesebridge now owes the success of its heir's wedding to the Snatchers! Can't you imagine what that will do for us?"

"And is that why you've ignored me since then?" Herbert asked, his voice suddenly taking on an edge. "Because speaking to me won't get you any closer to that White Hat you've dreamed of?"

"Perhaps it is."

"Why is it so important to you, Archibald?"

"Why is a White Hat important?" Archibald was flabbergasted. "It comes with power! It comes with prestige! It comes with wealth and influence! It comes with everything I've been denied my whole life!"

"Except for love and friendship," Herbert said softly. "You had that. It wasn't enough, though, was it?"

The silence was deafening before Archibald said, "You realize it wasn't supposed to be this way. We were supposed to achieve greatness together. But you gave it up the moment you met Mrs. Trubshaw née Travis. You settled. You decided my dreams were just too good for you."

"That…that isn't entirely true, Archibald," Herbert stated, his tone now growing shaky. "I thought…perhaps we could live out our lives the way we wanted and stop caring what everyone thinks about us. So long as we had each other, the White Hat wouldn't matter. We could follow our dreams in our own ways. I would continue to invent, even if my inventions never became famed or used by the White Hats. And you…you always did write such beautiful poetry. You could have been a writer. Or an artist, with the way you crafted all of the gowns at your family's shop. Or even an actor. And Marjorie…well, we won't speak of Marjorie if you don't want to hear it, but she would have been my wife all the same, and she would have been able to live the same way, doing what she loves no matter what anyone thinks. And Fish and Shoe, they could be with us too, instead of having to run and hide from every human aboveground. We, all of us, could have had – we could STILL have a wonderful life together, making things and being ourselves!"

"And what's brought all this on?" Archibald snapped. "You were always the first to champion that my family might actually do it, you know! That I myself, Archibald Snatcher, might – "

"You would NEVER have earned that hat, Archibald, and you KNOW it!" Herbert finally snapped.

Archibald was taken aback, giving Herbert an absolutely stunned look. He had absolutely never seen this side of Herbert before and was almost curious to plumb the depths of his anger. "What…is THAT…supposed to mean?"  
"It means the White Hats are terrible people who only care about keeping the hats in their own families, or buying their way into power!" Herbert ranted. "They've always thought of you as so much lesser than you are, and that's all they'll EVER see you as! To them, you don't have the look, the manners, or the money, and you never will! And it isn't because you aren't worthy; it's because they're pigheaded and short-sighted! No amount of hemming wedding gowns is going to change that, Archibald! I'm sorry to have to speak ill of your dream, but that's all it will EVER be! Just…a…dream! And the sooner you WAKE UP from it, the sooner you'll finally be happy with your life!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW A THING ABOUT WHITE HATS!" Archibald roared in retaliation. "AND YOU DON'T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT ME, IF YOU THINK I CAN'T GET THEM TO SEE WHAT I DESERVE! YOU NEVER THOUGHT THIS BEFORE YOU MET THAT WOMAN, AND LOOK WHAT YOU'VE BECOME! HER HOLLOWED-OUT PUPPET THAT SHE USES TO SAY HER WORDS THROUGH!"

"THAT'S NOT TRUE!" Herbert yelled. "SHE DIDN'T CHANGE MY MIND! SHE JUST MADE ME REALIZE WHAT I HAD THOUGHT ALL ALONG!"

Now the silence was not so much deafening as it was the equivalent of something strong breaking unexpectedly in two. Archibald took a few breaths before he was able to formulate his response: "You've…thought this from the very start? You thought I…that my family would NEVER be able to achieve power? And you let me believe you supported me."

"You wanted it so badly," Herbert said weakly. "I suppose I talked myself into it because of that. I wanted you to be happy. But it's been so long, Archibald. We aren't children anymore. We know how this town works. We know how the WORLD works. And we can't go on pretending. The good news is that we don't need the White Hats or their approval in order to be happy. Because I've been thinking it over, and I realized…things like hats, they're not what make you who you are. YOU make – "

"Don't ever speak to me again."

Herbert was immediately filled with regret. "But, Archibald – "

"Don't EVER speak to me AGAIN!" Giving Herbert a rough shove aside, Archibald stormed quickly back toward his family's shop.

Thoughts of remorse filled Herbert's mind: that he could have found a way to put his musings into words more tactfully, more gently. He thought about running after his friend, calling out to him, asking forgiveness, asking to clarify his point, asking simply to talk about it instead of yelling about it.

But he knew that if he did any such thing, he would only be met with hard-headed resistance. Archibald Snatcher had made up his mind, and Herbert knew him well enough to realize his decision was final. They were no longer friends.

And furthermore, Archibald realized with a final breath of relief, he no longer had any feelings for Herbert in any capacity beyond that.

...

Years passed. Muddy springs solidified into warm summers, which rotted into withering autumns and froze over into cold winters. The sun rose and set and rose and set only to rise again, and one chilly autumn day, it rose over the grave of Gabriel Spencer Snatcher, buried at the side of his long-dead wife Amelia.

The funeral was small, but hardly intimate. It sickened Archibald to see how few people had come to mourn their tailor. Their town had practically run on his work, and yet they refused to acknowledge his importance by so much as turning up for his passing.

Verses were read over the grave, and a priest wished Gabriel safe passage into the afterlife. The people eventually grew bored and began leaving during the readings until Archibald was the only one left. And then the priest took his leave as well; Archibald stood alone over the graves of his parents.

What had they worked for? This he wondered as he read their headstones: only their names and "Beloved Husband/Beloved Wife." Nothing of their accomplishments had been documented. They had not been viewed as noteworthy in the slightest. And of course, no one had thought to even try and console their son, though Archibald would have tried to strangle anyone who attempted to do such a thing. After all the work the Snatchers had put into dressing the citizens of Cheesebridge, was this how they were to be repaid? With a quiet passing into an unremarkable grave, with no White Hat, with hardly even any money to their name?

Archibald felt his eyes truly open then. Perhaps, in his own way, Herbert had been right. Lord Charles Portley-Rind, for he was now Lord of the city, had never respected the Snatchers. Archibald himself didn't know how much time he had left to secure a position if he was to secure one at all. Certainly, a whole lifetime would never be enough to impress Lord Portley-Rind. He never would have the right look, the right manners, the right money. Seeing the unadorned headstones of his parents burned this harsh truth into his heart. There truly was only one way to win the game, and in order to do so, Archibald would have to change his entire strategy.

He turned and made his way from the cemetery. There were preparations to be made. If they wouldn't give him a White Hat for merit, he would simply have to do what he'd learned as the son of a tailor: rip Cheesebridge apart at the seams.

...

Archibald wasn't the only one to have lost someone and be thrust into sobering realizations because of it. In the upper floors of the general hospital, Herbert Trubshaw sat, practically curled up into a ball over a small bundle in his arms. Every now and again, his body was wracked with a terrible sob.

It was supposed to be one of the happiest days of his life: the birth of his and Marjorie's child. He hadn't been able to conceal his glee when he rushed Marjorie to medical aid, and she too had been joyous, talking to the small form within her own body, telling it she was excited to meet whoever it turned out to be. But then, during the birth, complications had arisen. And though the orderlies had done their best, there had been no saving Marjorie. Only the child.

As Herbert wept for the loss of his love, the tiny baby let out a loud wail. Herbert forced himself to stem the flow of his tears; he was now the only parent the child, a boy, had, and now he had to be strong for him. "It's all right, Arthur," he said shakily, his voice breaking. He knew it wouldn't be long before he found himself weeping again. "I know things may seem awful, but I…I'm here for you…and I will take care of you to the very best of my ability. I love you, Arthur."

One of the staff gingerly approached. "Mr. Trubshaw…"

"I know." Herbert stood, cradling Arthur gently, quivering at the knees. "I need to move along, don't I?"

"That would be best, Mr. Trubshaw. You can make funeral arrangements with – "

"I know, I know." Herbert gave a polite nod. "Thank you, at least, for trying to save her."

On his way out of the hospital, he continued to mutter assurances to the child: "It's only you and me now. But we'll be all right. You and I can make it." And as he reached his house, he began to sing. He had no sense of rhythm, and his pitch was terrible. Anyone else who may have heard the song might have mocked him for it.

But Arthur was calmed by the sound, and by the time Herbert lay the child down in his crib, the baby boy was fast asleep.

"Goodnight, Arthur," Herbert bade him. "I do truly love you. And we will be all right."

Then he turned to his own bed, which, without Marjorie, was all too wide and empty.


	8. Destruction Versus Acquisition

8\. Destruction Versus Acquisition

The first thing Archibald Snatcher attended to was the coat. If he couldn't look perfect, at least he could stand out visually; give Lord Portley-Rind something that would burn his image into the lord's memory. And so he took to the sewing floor of Snatcher's Stitches, rolling out a thick red fabric, cutting and piecing together a magnificent tailed coat of scarlet.

When all was done, he donned the coat before a mirror, admiring himself. The sight didn't please him as much as the image of Madame Frou Frou did, but it wasn't shabby at all, to his mind. Though it did seem to be missing a certain something.

Casting his gaze about the shop, Archibald noticed a tall, somewhat crooked red top hat in the corner. He couldn't remember exactly what the hat had been made for, but it had obviously never sold. No one had wanted something so garish. Archibald swiped the hat and perched it atop his head, turning back to the mirror. Now he looked even taller, more elegant, more memorable. Lord Portley-Rind would come to associate that red hat with him, and all for the better.

He couldn't have guessed how much he would come to resent being associated with that red hat. And yet he would never let it go until the White Hat was in his hands.

As he walked out, he closed and locked the doors of Snatcher's Stitches for the last time. A new family would soon take up the trade of town tailors and dressmakers, and the Snatcher legacy of working with fabric would be absolutely forgotten in place of something new and horrifying.

...

In the darkest hours of the night, Herbert Trubshaw was awake, gently rocking Arthur to try and calm a fit of crankiness that had overcome the child. He paced up and down the halls slowly, singing softly, tunelessly, to his beloved son.

There was a soft knock upon the door.

Cautious, Herbert proceeded toward the entryway. The knock sounded again. "Hello?" Herbert called out.

The knock came a third time, and Herbert realized that whomever was knocking could only reach as high as halfway up the door. That narrowed down considerably who could have come to visit. Herbert gladly flung the door open to see Fish and Shoe standing before him; they spread their arms wide and said a word that Herbert knew translated to "CONGRATULATIONS!"

Neither Boxtroll understood, at first, why Herbert burst into tears upon viewing the gesture. Fish gently asked if everything was all right, pointing out that he had expected Herbert to be happy because of his new son.

Shoe, in the meantime, just brought out how annoyingly loud the baby was.

"I am happy to have him," Herbert said softly between his tears. "So very happy. He's the most precious person in the whole world to me. But Marjorie…she…" He swallowed hard; he wasn't sure he could ever find the words to express it. Then, at last, he confessed, "She's gone."

Fish asked, gingerly, whether she had merely left, or if she had suffered a more permanent fate.

"Dead," Herbert confirmed, feeling the blow to his heart all over again.

Fish and Shoe were both taken aback. They looked to each other, not sure how to proceed, exactly. Then Fish trod forward softly, tugging on Herbert's sleeve. Herbert knelt, and Fish enveloped him as best he could in an embrace of comfort.

After rolling his eyes, Shoe joined in as well, and the three of them remained in that position for some time, with the squalling Arthur at the center.

Fish burbled that he was very, very sorry to hear of Herbert's loss.

"It'll be all right," Herbert said, and as he did, his tears finally abated. "It will have to be all right."

Fish insisted that Herbert wouldn't be alone at all; he, Shoe, and the other Boxtrolls would be there for him.

"Thank you," Herbert said gratefully. "Thank you so much."

Shoe just grumbled that this had better not mean that he would have to take care of the baby, which was still far too loud.

...

It was with a heavy heart that Royce Pickles knocked on the door of the house he shared with his constant companion. Said companion, one Edward Trout, answered the door and remarked, "You're home early."

"Yes, well…" Pickles sighed. He gave the chimney-sweep's brush in his hand a halfhearted spin. "It seems I won't be needing this anymore."

"They fired you?" Trout asked in concern.

Pickles nodded.

"Come in, then," Trout encouraged, beckoning for Pickles to enter the small abode. "We'll get you a spot of tea, and that'll make things look better."

"Don't know that we'll be able to afford tea much longer," Pickles sighed as he followed Trout inside.

Once Pickles was seated at the small, rickety table, Trout, pouring him a steaming cup of tea, asked, "So what happened this time?"

"The same thing that always happens, I'm afraid," Pickles sighed. "They found out about us. And I was being so careful to keep it a secret. But with the number of employers we've both gone through, everyone in town must know by now."

"Maybe…well, maybe we shouldn't…" Trout began, but found he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Be together?" Pickles completed it for him. "But the thought of that's worse than the thought of never being employed in this town again."

"I know," Trout agreed. "I was thinking the same thing. That's why I didn't finish the sentence, you see." He took a moment to press a brief kiss to the side of Pickles' face before taking a seat across from him at the table with his own cup of tea.

"Do you remember when we were younger, and we used to dream of being heroes that would be celebrated throughout the whole town?" Pickles asked. "Defeating great evils, saving the town from peril?"

"Seems so long ago," Trout said with a nod. "But I remember." He took a pensive sip of tea.

"Couldn't be further away from that, now, could we?" Pickles sighed.

"Here's a thought," Trout said suddenly. "We can't leave each other. That's not an option. But everyone in town knows, well, that we're with each other. What if we left here and found another town? We might be able to keep our secret better there. Get real jobs."

"A capital idea, Mr. Trout!" Pickles affirmed; much like Archibald, both of them had been so conditioned to referring to others by their surnames for respect that they had trouble even using each other's first names, intimate as they were with each other, and had both gotten used to being referred to by surnames affectionately. "Maybe there's even a place out there where they'll accept us for who we are. A place where two men in love isn't strange."

"It'll be an adventure to find it!" Trout declared. "If we can't be heroes, the least we can be is adventurers!"

And they might have begun their great adventure that very night if the insistent rapping hadn't come upon their door just then.

"A visitor?" Pickles turned to look at the door, perplexed. "But no one visits us."

The rapping came again, and a pleasant-sounding baritone called out, "Gentlemen! Mr. Trout! Mr. Pickles!"

Exchanging looks of suspicion, both Trout and Pickles got up to answer the unexpected caller. Upon opening the door, Pickles told the visitor, "Er…yes, that is us. Can we help you?"

Archibald Snatcher grinned at the pair, and neither could truly read his expression. "I had heard that the two of you had been suffering some…misfortune," Archibald began.

"You don't know the half of it," Trout sighed.

"Let me hazard a guess, at least," Archibald said playfully. "Run out of occupation after occupation because no one wants to employ a queer man. Afraid it's a disease that'll catch, they are. Absolutely no respect for the fact that you're lovers whatsoever."

"How did you – " Pickles began.

"Oh, everyone in town knows by now," Archibald stated. "One needs only pay attention to recent gossip."

"I knew it," Trout sighed.

"I have decided, however," Archibald continued, "out of the kindness of my heart, to take pity on you poor luckless gentlemen." It had very little to do with kindness and more to do with the fact that he needed help to pull off his plan, and the easiest way to acquire help was to prey upon those in town who were further outcast than even Archibald was. "I've a job offer for both of you, if you're willing to take it."

"A job?" Trout repeated, as he and Pickles exchanged looks yet again, unable to believe what they were hearing. "For us?"

"What sort of job?" Pickles asked, turning back to look at Archibald.

"This town is plagued by a great evil," Archibald explained with a smug grin. "One that we have feared for years, and yet not done a single thing about. No one has yet been brave enough to stand up to the cannibalistic, savage force that lurks beneath our very streets! No one, that is, save myself, Archibald Snatcher! It is my intent to save Cheesebridge from this impending threat, but of course, I cannot do it alone. I need at least three men of strong mettle. Men who can be heroes."

"We've always wanted to be heroes!" Pickles said excitedly.

"What sort of evil are we talking about, exactly?" Trout asked.

"Gentlemen," Archibald revealed, "we are going to kill the Boxtrolls."

Trout and Pickles both gasped and flinched. "But the Boxtrolls…well…they eat people," Pickles stammered. "They're pure evil. We can't possibly stand up to them!"

"Oh, but we can," Snatcher insisted, thinking back on the docile interactions between Herbert, Fish, and Shoe, "and we will. If we don't make this town safe for our children to play in the streets, than who will? And if we don't act fast, the Boxtrolls may very well do something horrible that we'll wish we could have prevented. They could…steal a child."

"No!" Pickles cried.

"Yes, I'm afraid," Archibald said with a solemn nod. "Will you join me in this noble quest as Boxtroll exterminators?"  
"I…don't know…" Trout said tentatively.

"Well, all right, then," Archibald replied. "I can see when my offer isn't welcomed. I'll find other men, of course. Good luck finding another job, fellows! From what I've heard, oh, you'll need it." He turned as though to walk away, knowing all the while he would be stopped.

"Wait!" Pickles called after him.

Archibald halted, smiling due to the knowledge that everything was going exactly as planned.

"I'll do it," Pickles volunteered. "I'll join you in defeating the Boxtrolls."

"And so will I," Trout agreed. "Maybe…if we save this town from Boxtrolls…they'll actually like us."

"My thoughts exactly, my good sirs!" Archibald said gladly, turning back to face them and shake each of their hands in turn. "No matter what you may have done or been, how can anyone say no to their heroes? Once our work is done, you'll have people lining up at your door to request your services helping them with problems great and small, and offering a wealth of riches for it! Why, if all goes as well as planned…no, no, that's just a speculation. I mustn't say it out loud. Don't want to get your hopes up, after all…"

"What is it?" Trout asked. "You can't just say a thing like that and not explain it."

"Well, if you insist," Archibald replied. "If all goes as planned, our heroic deed will earn all of us…White Hats."

"White Hats!" Pickles was taken aback. "We've never even dreamed we could be White Hats."

"Then you haven't dreamed big enough, quite obviously," Archibald stated cavalierly. "Rescuing Cheesebridge from the ultimate evil will of course be enough to earn us those coveted hats. Then you won't even need jobs."

"This all sounds very exciting," Trout replied. "Almost too good to be true."

"That's how most good things seem, Mr. Trout," Archibald cajoled. "Now. I've got both of you on board, but I'll need at least one more. Where can I find another man down on his luck, who needs a helping hand, but who has great untapped potential for heroics?"

"Can't think of anyone off the top of my head," Trout stated.

"Well…" Pickles thought it over. "There is the madman who lives atop the hill. He's got to be the most unfortunate man in town. But I don't know if you'll be able to talk to him. He's a bit…odd."

"Oddness from a madman is to be expected," Archibald stated with a nod. "Tell me more."

...

The case of Cuthbert Gristle was tragic. No one knew exactly what made his mind so different from others in town; no one had the language for it besides such terms as "madman." And as such, no one knew what to do for him, how to care for him. His parents had died young, and he lived alone in what had once been their house, with no visitors; no one dared come close. He could occasionally be glimpsed around town taking care of basic errands; he spoke in one-word sentences. And about him, there seemed to be a sense of inexplicable glee that caused discomfort in others, for he wasn't cheered up by such things as the sun shining on a warm summer day or being greeted by a friend, but instead stepping on the tails of alley cats and knocking over piles of groceries in the shops. The people of Cheesebridge feared him, worrying that at his core, there lurked something very sinister. In truth, what was sinister about him was lured out of him, molded by an outside circumstance that wished to take advantage of him.

That circumstance turned up on his doorstep dressed in scarlet. "Mr. Gristle, I presume?" Archibald Snatcher asked.

Gristle was at first just stunned by Archibald's vibrant appearance. "Red!" he commented.

"Quite," Archibald agreed, wondering if he was to regret this alliance before it had even begun. "Now, tell me, Mr. Gristle. Have you ever wished to be a hero?"  
"Hero?" Gristle replied.

"Have you fantasized about the glory that would befall you," Archibald continued, "if you were responsible for the extermination of all Boxtrolls, which are perhaps the most monstrous evil to ever poison this town?"

"Ex…terminate?" Gristle wasn't sure.

"Exterminate," Archibald repeated. "Eliminate. Annihilate. DESTROY."

"Ohhhh, destroy!" Gristle nodded. Out front of his abode, a bat lay propped up against the wall, and near it were some cardboard boxes from things he'd purchased. Gristle, eager to demonstrate to this stranger what he'd just heard, took the bat into hand and began striking the boxes flat with it. "DESTROY!"

As he watched Gristle beat the boxes into ruination from which there was no return, Archibald's smile grew wider and wickeder. "Exactly, Mr. Gristle," he muttered. "Destroy."

...

And so Archibald came to the final phases of his plan, in which he knew he would need one last piece, one he was loath to acquire. But there was literally no one else who could put the scheme into motion as it was scripted.

He trusted no one else but Gristle to accompany him on the quest to put the final piece in place. He knew quite well that things could easily turn ugly, and the likes of Pickles and Trout would be offput and doubt Archibald's intentions if his hand were forced. He needed them to trust him, believe in him. Gristle's loyalty didn't hinge on the same sort of upstanding morals. And if a rougher hand was required, Archibald knew Gristle would back him up rather than try to talk him down.

And so, with Gristle in tow, Archibald knocked on Herbert Trubshaw's door.

His old friend answered, and Archibald was pleased to find that this time, his heart rate stayed stagnant. Herbert's expression was likened to one who had seen the dead come back to life. "Archibald…?" he said softly, stunned.

"Hello, Trubshaw," Archibald said innocently. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"  
"It's been years," Herbert reminded him.

"Have you got any time to catch up with an old friend?" Archibald asked.

"I…I thought I was never to speak to you again," Herbert told him.

"I may have said some very foolish things in the past," Archibald replied. "But let's just let bygones be bygones, shall we? I have so missed your company."

"Well, then, by all means!" Herbert's face lit up. He then turned his attention to Archibald's new companion; "And who might you be?"

"Gristle!" Gristle put out his right hand; Herbert grasped it and shook it firmly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gristle!" Herbert said, sincere as always. "Come inside, both of you! I'll put a kettle on."

Herbert readied a table on the upper floor, and as he did so, he was made aware of Arthur crying out from the adjacent room. Herbert quickly rushed to gather his son into an arm, carrying the babe with him as he set about making and pouring tea.

"So this is your bouncing baby boy, is it?" Archibald said as he looked over small Arthur. Babies disgusted him, he decided on the spot. This one in particular was drooling most uncouthly.

"His name is Arthur," Herbert introduced lovingly. "Arthur, this is Archibald. He's an old friend."

Arthur made some babbling sounds in reply. Archibald grimaced.

Once all were seated, Herbert still cradling Arthur, Archibald stated, "To tell you the truth, I had wished to discuss a matter of business with you, Trubshaw."

"Business?" Herbert asked. "Of what sort?"

Here came the difficult part of the endeavor. "I've decided to take my career in a…new direction," Archibald began. "And in order to do that, I have realized, I am going to need a machine. I've never been gifted at all with such things, but you…you always were so talented with mechanics."

Herbert's face fell; Archibald could tell he was disappointed that Archibald had only showed up because he wanted something. Still, Herbert wasn't going to turn him away without hearing him out. "What sort of machine did you need?"

"An indestructible one of great size," Archibald described, "from which a man might tower over the whole town. Something built to capture. And, if needed, destroy. In other words, your greatest mechanical doohickey yet."

Herbert was taken aback. "And for whatever would you need something like THAT?"

Archibald had rehearsed various lies for this part, but, looking into Herbert's eyes, he once again succumbed to weakness. Herbert could no longer make his heart race; he could, however, turn Archibald into an honest man. "It's my plan to take the White Hat," he stated. "I'm finally going to do it, Herbert. But in order to do it, I shall need some…leverage. It occurred to me like a bolt from the blue: your Boxtrolls! If I were to destroy them in one fell swoop in front of Lord Portley-Rind, he'd have no choice but to give me the White Hat! Hasn't this town been running scared of the little beasts ever since we were children? What if they were suddenly gone? Would the one who rid the town of them not become the most celebrated man in all Cheesebridge? Or, should I say, the ONES who rid the town of them become the most celebrated MEN in all Cheesebridge? Think of it, Trubshaw!"

Herbert's teacup shattered against the floor. "You can't be saying what I think you're saying," Herbert said shakily. "My friends. Fish. Shoe. You want to…you want to kill them."

"You still believe yourself friends with those monsters?" Archibald scoffed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But you do know, Trubshaw, they'll never be human. If you're waiting for them to be worth your time – "

"They ARE worth my time, Archibald. They've been worth my time from the moment I met them," Herbert insisted. "They may not be human, but they are PEOPLE. People like you and me."

Archibald shook his head. "I truly thought you were more intelligent than that, Trubshaw."

Herbert rose angrily from his seat; "And I thought YOU were more intelligent than THIS! You really think you can earn a White Hat for bloodthirst? Lord Portley-Rind will see right through you! What if killing innocents gets you absolutely NOTHING in return? What will become of you then?"

"Why, then I will have a machine of terrible destruction, of course," Archibald said casually, "and if they won't listen to me for saving their town from the Boxtroll menace, then they WILL listen to me when I hold THEIR lives in my hands. Of course, I should hate for it to come to that. I do so wish for them to grant me the White Hat with true respect. But if I can't have that, I suppose I can settle. You know what they say about it being better to be feared than loved."

"You're mad," Herbert accused. "You were never like this. The Archibald Snatcher I knew would never cause a genocide just to acquire power. The Archibald Snatcher I knew was a kind man and a loyal friend."

"The Archibald Snatcher you knew was young, misguided, and weak," Archibald insisted, rising to look down upon Herbert. "I've learned something, Herbert. I've learned you were right about the White Hats. They never will reward my efforts to please them by doing honest work for this town. No, to them, so long as I play their game, I'll always be ugly, queer Archibald Snatcher, the lowborn tailor's son. But there is a way to win this game, Herbert, and that's to cheat! Don't you see? This doesn't just have to be about me!" He was surprised at his own sincerity in the next words he spoke: "It can be for both of us! Look at you! Without Mrs. Trubshaw, you've nothing left! But it can be the way it used to be: you and I together! We can turn this town on its head, Trubshaw! Envision it: White Hats for the both of us! Together, WE can be the heroes of the story! Or, failing that, WE will be the villains! Either way, you and I will finally win! All I need is your help, Trubshaw!" Archibald's eyes glimmered with greed, and Herbert backed away, holding Arthur protectively.

"No," Herbert said softly, hardly daring to look his former friend in the eye. "No…no, I won't do it. I never WANTED that sort of power, Archibald. All I wanted was to be happy. I never wanted to win. And I won't win. Not if that's what it takes."

Archibald's expression immediately soured. "I've been reasonable," he growled. "I can be UNreasonable."

Herbert finally found his voice: "I'm an inventor! NOT A KILLER!"

Slowly, the smile spread back over Archibald's face. His eyes flicked down to tiny Arthur. He knew what would get Herbert to crack. "Maybe…if I hold onto your son – "

Archibald reached out to grab the child; Herbert shoved him roughly back, shouting, "NOT MY SON!"

Gristle, catching on to Archibald's intent, had crept around to Herbert's other side, and lunged at him; Herbert planted a deft kick in Gristle's chest, sending him flying across the room. Herbert now knew there was no talking Archibald down from the evil that had overtaken him, and he knew he had to remove Arthur's safety from the equation as quickly as possible. He rushed to the window, where he, Fish, and Shoe had set up a pulley system with a bucket for trading tools and building supplies through said window. The last few things the Boxtrolls had given him had come up in a spare box, one first fashioned to deliver eggs, and it was in this box that Herbert quickly nestled Arthur, looking down to the street.

Fish and Shoe were watching from below, eyes wide with horror. Herbert wondered how much they'd seen, how much they'd heard, how much they knew. The window would have given them a pretty good view, and his argument with Archibald had become loud. He prayed that they knew the imminent danger enough to get Arthur as far away from the situation as they could. The pulley was let down, and Arthur, "eggs" box and all, was lowered to the street. "RUN!" Herbert screamed at Fish and Shoe. "TAKE MY SON!"

Gristle's arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him back. He heard Arthur crying from the street below.

Herbert's penchant for inventing had caused him to leave all sorts of tools around the house. On the tea table, next to a half-finished device featuring a propeller, lay a wrench. Archibald seized both opportunity and the wrench, charging the struggling Herbert and Gristle, raising the wrench high over Herbert's head.

Herbert turned just in time to look up and see what was about to happen to him. "Archibald, NO – "

The wrench came down hard. Not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to knock Herbert senseless. As Herbert slumped unconsciously to the floor, Archibald rushed to the window. Perhaps his leverage wasn't gone. Perhaps the boy was still within reach.

His gaze met Fish's for a moment. Then, before Archibald could react, Fish had swept up Arthur and begun to run, the shadows concealing his destination from Archibald.

A thousand hypothetical undoings began to rush through Archibald's mind. That child was a liability, so long as he went unfound. He was proof of what had happened. But at the same time, Archibald realized, the child was an opportunity. For all intents and purposes, the Boxtrolls had done exactly what he'd wanted. They had taken a child. And he knew how to tell the story in his own favor.

Gristle hovered over Herbert's head, holding the teapot high above it, ready to smash. "Destroy?" he asked.

"…No," Archibald told him after some thought. "Not destroy. Acquire. We still need him, Mr. Gristle. And we'll need those Boxtrolls of his after all. How did it not occur to me before? Trubshaw's mind is useless without their little hands." He turned away from the window. "Help me carry him out of here."

"Trout?" Gristle asked. "Pickles?"  
"Need only know this was a liar and a wicked, wicked man who is best brought to justice," Archibald told him, "and that his helping us build our machine is his penance for his crimes. Just as putting the Boxtrolls to work is penance for their crimes."

"Put to work?"

"Yes, Mr. Gristle. Put to work. We shall need to acquire them as well. All of them. Now, help me move Trubshaw! We'd best get a move on! After all, I have a visit to pay Lord Portley-Rind. The unspeakable has happened, and we must speak of it immediately."

...

When Herbert came to, he was utterly perplexed. First of all, he was upside-down. Looking up – or was it down? – he found that his feet were encased in metal boots that were stuck to a great magnetic plate. Second, he seemed to be located in a basement of some sort. It was spacious, but very dark.

"Comfortable, are we?"

The voice startled Herbert, and he could make out a silhouette leaning against the wall across the room. Even upside-down, he knew the shape well. "Archibald. Where am I?" All the memories came rushing back of Archibald's surprise visit, of his revelation of his sinister plan, of how he'd attacked Herbert. Herbert hoped beyond hope that was all somehow just a terrible dream, but given the current circumstances, that seemed ever more unlikely.

"Now, does that really matter?" Archibald asked him mockingly. "Though you might be interested to know that I got the idea for that magnet and those iron socks from the late Mrs. Trubshaw. Seems she had one or two good ideas after all."

"Archibald," Herbert pleaded, "don't do this. You…you can do whatever you want to me. But don't hurt the Boxtrolls. Don't hurt the people of Cheesebridge. And please, PLEASE, Archibald…don't hurt my son."

"Your son is dead," Archibald stated. "Or, at least, he is as far as anyone else is concerned. And he will most certainly be dead when I catch up to him. In the meantime, the tragedy of the Trubshaw Baby and his father will be known throughout all Cheesebridge. Everyone will come to know the tale of how the Boxtrolls ruthlessly cannibalized the both of them."

"They'll never believe you," Herbert spat.

"Won't they?" Archibald countered. "No, I suppose not. They never did listen to me. Oh, if only there were someone around who would be taken seriously. Wait. There is." He chuckled. "And her name is Madame Frou Frou. Oh, don't doubt for a second that Lord Portley-Rind isn't smitten with 'her.' How's that for irony, Trubshaw?"

"You know I won't help you with your infernal machine," Herbert growled.

"We'll see how you feel after you've spent some time in that position," Archibald told him. "After all, I don't intend to let you right-side-up until we're done. But it isn't all going to be bad, old friend. See, if you help me out, I'll let you have all the jelly your little heart of gold desires!"

"Archibald…" And now the tears came, running out of Herbert's eyes and trickling up over his forehead. "We were friends."

At that, Archibald made his way to the door of the basement without a word. He paused just before his exit, turning to look over his shoulder at Herbert. "We were," he confirmed, "weren't we?"  
Then, utterly satisfied with himself, he ascended the stairs, leaving Herbert to sob in solitude.


	9. Jelly

9\. Jelly

Ten years after that, a plot was stopped in its tracks. Its evil was with righteousness matched. A broken town was finally patched, and by deadly greed was Snatcher snatched.

Boxtrolls and humans didn't quite live in peace, but they were getting there; Boxtrolls were now welcomed on the surface and taking jobs as repairpeople and inventors. The White Hats remained in power, but the people seemed to have been disillusioned with them ever so slightly, and the seed had been planted of curiosity as to just what power a hat held. Tales were no longer told of the horrid kidnapping of the Trubshaw Baby, but instead what Eggs Trubshaw, having adopted a more Boxtroll moniker than "Arthur" to reflect his nature as a bridge between Boxtrolls and humans, had done in order to free Cheesebridge from Archibald Snatcher's lies and lift the ever-present curfew.

As for Eggs himself, he and his long-estranged father, the man once known as Herbert – who had been shaken up a little by spending ten years upside down, but really didn't consider himself that much more odd than he had been before – rode a great wheeled machine, one stolen from the Red Hats but which had been based on Herbert's old prototype, throughout town, offering repairs on broken objects and trade-ins for items that people considered "junk." Herbert, much like Arthur, had abandoned his name in favor of something he felt suited him better, and preferred to be addressed as "Jelly" by friends, family, and strangers alike.

As the vehicle rounded the corner on one sunny summer day, Eggs tugged at his father's sleeve, pointing toward a stage set up in the one of the town circuses; "Father, look! Winnie's telling our story again! Can we watch?"

"Most certainly!" Jelly replied, pulling the vehicle to a halt.

Eggs and Jelly squeezed their way into the crowd, ending up at about the middle of it in time to hear Winifred Portley-Rind giving her overly dramatic rendition of events: "And then, just as all seemed to be going well for our misfit heroes, the monstrous Snatcher burst from the brie-hemoth, swollen to twice – no, three times his size, and with a thirst for blood! He demanded a White Hat, or the street would run red with gore!"

"He never said that," Eggs laughed. "Good old Winnie. I love it when she puts in things like that. Don't you?"

Jelly didn't answer. He hadn't realized, after all this time, how much hearing the retellings would affect him. His son and Winnie had known Archibald Snatcher the monster. And, in the end, that is what Archibald Snatcher had become; Herbert had finally come to accept it after living as his captive.

And yet, somewhere deep within Jelly's heart, there echoed the laugh of two adolescent boys skating on the river.

"Father?" Eggs asked. "Are you all right?"

"And then…" Winnie paused her tale to let the audience drink in the suspense of what had taken place in the Tasting Room. "The villain EXPLODED! Blood and guts rained from the heavens and doused us! It was absolutely WONDERF – horrible. It was completely horrible."

So that was how it ended, Jelly thought. Archibald was dead, and if there had been any hope left for him, it was all gone now. He wondered if he should have been in that room, if he should have seen it happen. He knew he couldn't have stopped it. Eggs had tried, and for that, Jelly admired him – partly for trying to save Jelly's old friend, and partly for attempting to appeal to good in someone who had been corrupted by pure evil. Eggs was a very smart and kind child, and Jelly looked forward to seeing what he would become as he grew older.

"Father," Eggs observed, "you're crying."

"Am I?" Jelly touched his cheek to feel the dampness of the single tear he'd let loose.

"What's wrong?" Eggs asked in concern.

"You and Winnie are such good friends," Jelly stated.

Eggs nodded enthusiastically. "We are!"

"I hope your friendship endures for a long, long time," Jelly said somberly.

"Why wouldn't it?" Eggs asked.

Jelly shook his head. "There's a sad story I know about two friends. But it can wait for another day, when it isn't so beautiful. This isn't the kind of day to ruin by telling sad stories!"  
One day, he knew, Eggs would have to know the truth. But he wasn't yet ready to tell that tale. Besides, it truly was a gorgeous day, and not one Jelly wanted to sully by dwelling on painful memories.

Winnie hopped off the stage, and Eggs rushed to greet her and congratulate her on her storytelling. Jelly watched the two of them with a bittersweet smile. He did ever so wish their story would have a happy ending.

~End~


End file.
